Pain And Failure
by stealthy290
Summary: Don has to deal with the pain of a failed mission to rescue two abducted girls. Warning: Self injury depicted. Epilogue: The moment you've all been waiting for
1. To Deal With Pain

**A/N: This is my first Numb3rs fanfic, and my first time ever writing something more than just a oneshot. The next few chapters will be up in the next week. Please review! Thanks!**

**Standard Disclaimers: Chars aren't mine, show isn't mine, blah blah blah. Not making any money off this.**

Exhausted, Don dropped onto his couch. His jacket was unbuttoned; tie hanging loose around his neck. Leaning forward so his elbows were propped on his knees, Don rubbed his eyes with his palms. He hadn't slept more than six cumulative hours in the last five days, and meals were almost as sporadic as his sleep. Power naps and coffee always managed to get him through the case, but once it was over, reality came crashing back.

His team had conducted a raid on a kidnapper's house around two o'clock in the morning, only to find the two missing girls dead by an hour. The only satisfaction was that the perp was now behind bars, unable to hurt more children. The case had started two weeks ago with the kidnapping of two apparently unrelated girls. They were dead within thirty-six hours, and two new victims snatched within the next thirty-six. All the victims were between the ages of seven and ten, all girls, and always snatched two at a time. Other than that information, the victims had almost nothing in common. Different ethnicities, different hair color, different levels of intelligence, different interests. Studying the victims hadn't gotten them anywhere, so Don had turned to Charlie to help.

The kidnapper took each set of girls to a new house where he held and killed them after a day and a half. The houses were chosen because the owners were on vacation, planning to be out of town for at least a week. If there wasn't a connection between the victims, maybe Charlie could find a connection between the houses. Charlie had hoped to find the connection and use it to predict the next hide-away. His math had given them two likely addresses, and Don had sent teams to follow up on both. Don had sent Charlie home shortly after midnight, as soon as he had found the two probable locations. If neither house was correct, Don would need Charlie to be alert in the morning to rework the equation. As it turned out, Charlie was right, and he wouldn't need to recalculate anything. Unfortunately, the FBI hadn't managed to get there in time.

Failure never stopped haunting Don. They had caught the guy, but they had failed two more little girls. The parents' accusing eyes seemed to follow Don everywhere he went. Why hadn't he been able to save their daughters? His team had tried to encourage each other with the fact that they had caught the kidnapper, and had enough evidence that prosecution would be easy. Even if the girls' parents or the Assistant Director didn't say anything, Don would always bear the guilt of failure. All the members of his team had done their jobs well. Charlie had done his best to quickly develop his expression to determine where the girls were being held. Everything went right. Except they were too late. As team leader, Don bore the responsibility. He wouldn't allow the weight of the failure fall on his team, it was his alone.

Ever since he could remember, Don had learned to bury all his feelings. Ignore the pain and it would go away… eventually. He had to stay strong for everyone else, so he couldn't afford to let anything show. It was probably why he did so well in the FBI. He was able to absorb all the pain and emotion and ignore it while working on the case. When it was over, and he was alone, he would deal with all the hurt. But no-one else would ever know what was going on inside.

The only problem was: what happens when there's too much bottled up inside? Don had never learned to actually deal with the pain, only to bury it and pretend it would go away. The past couple years had been tough on Don. His mother's long battle with cancer, his brother's tendency to shut out the world, his failed relationships, seeing Charlie and his father in danger from snipers or the Russian mob. Sometimes it was more than he could handle. Still, he had to be strong. For his team. For his family. He could never, and would never, break down in front of anyone. When something was too overwhelming, he would push it aside until later, when he was alone. Only then could he let his composure slip.

Charlie always invited Don to come back to the house for dinner after a hard case. Sometimes, Don would accept the invitation. A bottle or two of beer would help drown any pain. It was also nice to be able to spend time with his family, but sometimes it was just too much. Some nights, Don just couldn't stand to go to the house. Charlie never understood, but there were nights when Don just needed to be alone. To deal.

Charlie and Alan would never know how he dealt with the pressure from his job. He had seen too many horrific crimes… things men were never supposed to see. He had failed too many times. Failure demanded payment. And Don made that payment with blood. In the solitude of his apartment, a knife was all Don could use to make the pain go away. He had used the same blade for the last couple years, but he always made sure to keep it clean. His knife wasn't sharp enough to break skin in one slice. Razor blades were too easy, too quick. One swipe would produce blood, almost before his body would recognize the pain. The only way to get the desired response with a sharp blade was to cut deep, and that was dangerous. With his slightly dull knife, he never had to cut very deep, and never close to veins. He didn't want to risk killing himself by bleeding out… he just needed the pain as the blade pressed into his skin, and the rivulets of blood that would seep out of the wound.

It was a wonderful feeling of controlled pain as he repeated the same line two or three times before the blood made its way to the surface. Control. That was what his job lacked. There was no way to control the criminal actions of other people. By cutting himself, he could stop or start any time he wanted, produce as much or little pain as he needed. Control. And then, release. As the blood would start to trickle out, he could feel the pain and overwhelming emotion seep out of his body.

His upper arms and shoulders were lined with thin scars from his blade. It was easy enough to hide the scars… at work, he never rolled up his sleeves more than a couple inches above his elbows. When working out or playing baseball, his t-shirt sleeves always covered most of his upper arms. If they rode up for a moment, it wouldn't matter. The scars were thin enough and inconspicuous enough to not draw too much attention at a brief glance. Sometimes, the marks would fade within a few weeks. Other times, they would remain as pale reminders for the cost of failure. He didn't mind the scars. He deserved them.

Tonight, Don hadn't needed to hurt Charlie by not coming to the house. His family would be in bed, securely unaware of all the evil that lurked in the city. Don couldn't ignore it, but tonight all his thoughts were on the case he had just completed. Two more little girls dead because he couldn't figure it out in time. Dead because he had failed. With practiced movements, Don removed his shirt and retrieved his knife. It was hidden from casual observers in an end-stand drawer. Looking down at his right shoulder, Don counted the red stripes. There were already eight. One for each abducted girl that he couldn't save in time. His left hand held the knife and his right shoulder tightened. He traced out the first line three times before beads of blood began to show. One more time along the same path started a trail of blood that began to trickle down his arm. The crushing weight in his chest eased up a bit, but he wasn't done. Two girls, two cuts. That's the way it had to work. The second cut was a bit harder, thereby requiring another swipe of the knife before there was enough blood.

Ten neat, parallel lines. Don just looked at the marks for a couple minutes before walking to his sink to clean the knife. He picked an ice cube out of his freezer and rubbed it on his shoulder. The ice would clean the wounds, and the intensity of the cold would add just a bit more pain before his skin went numb. At the first signs that he was losing feeling, Don would stop. The point was to release the pain, not numb it away. After drying his shoulder, Don applied antibiotic cream to the whole area. It wouldn't be helpful for the cuts to get infected because he was careless.

With the pressure in his chest gone, Don was suddenly unable to keep his eyes open. He stumbled back to the couch, not even bothering to finish undressing or make it to his bed. The couch would have to do for now. He was asleep before his head hit the cushion.


	2. Caught

Don woke to insistent knocking on his door. Groggily, he checked his watch before sitting up. 7:30 in the morning. He had been asleep for just under two hours. Why the hell would someone be banging on his door at 7:30 a.m.?

With a groan, Don rose from the couch. He was still wearing his suit pants and dress socks from the night before, the rest of his clothes crumpled in a pile beside the couch. The knocking grew louder as he stiffly made his way to the door. Stifling a yawn, Don opened the door. There stood Charlie, one hand raised, mid-knock.

"Hey Don! We didn't hear from you last night, so I thought I'd bring by some breakfast on my way to CalSci."

Don looked down at the bag in Charlie's other hand. It looked like he'd brought donuts and coffee. "Charlie, you know what people say about cops and donuts," he joked. It was amazing that he could joke on this little sleep, especially after last night. "We raided those two houses last night, it was early this morning when it was over. You would have already been asleep."

Charlie stepped into the apartment, relief washing over his face. "Dad and I were worried that you might have been hurt." He cut off his remarks at an annoyed glance from Don. "Well, we were," the professor stated defensively. He knew better than to ask about how the raid had gone. Don was home, which meant they had found the girls, but his face and his stance showed that they hadn't saved them. Still, Charlie knew that he shouldn't push Don to tell him anything. The FBI agent would tell him when he was ready. If he was ever ready.

Don flipped on the lights inside his apartment as he led the way to the kitchen. When he turned around to face Charlie, the mathematician's gaze drifted to his shoulder. The shoulder with ten fresh lines. Then to the other shoulder, a mess of thin scars. Then back to the new injuries.

Damn, Don thought. He'd forgotten to put on a shirt before he answered the door. "I'll be right back, okay buddy?" Charlie nodded, still watching Don's shoulder. Don left the room quickly so he could find a new undershirt to wear.

When he returned to the kitchen, Charlie still looked stunned. Don tried to smile normally at his brother as he pulled the donuts and coffee out of the bag. "Thanks for the breakfast, Chuck." Charlie didn't respond to Don's teasing. "Hey, buddy, I'm alright. Okay?"

Slowly, Charlie nodded, his eyes moving back up to meet his older brothers'. Don could see the confusion in his little brother's eyes, but didn't want to deal with it. Not today. "Well, I suppose I should be getting to CalSci pretty soon." Charlie's voice caught mid-sentence. With suddenly quick movements, Charlie grabbed one of the coffees and a donut and nearly ran out the door of Don's apartment. Now it was Don's turn to stare after his brother, stunned.

After swallowing the last piece of his donut and the last bit of coffee, Don decided to shower. Showering and shaving were incredibly relaxing, and Don contemplated lying back down for a nap. Since they'd executed a late night raid, his team wasn't expected to come in quite as early as usual, but he couldn't show up too late. Settling for a travel mug of instant coffee, Don headed out the door. Traffic was a little worse than normal, but nothing outrageous. All said and done, Don rolled into the office at 8:30. Just one hour and two coffees since Charlie had so rudely woken him up.

Megan Reeves was already at her desk working, but David and Colby hadn't shown up yet. As Don sat down and started to work on some never-ending paperwork, Megan kept shooting him glances. The team leader didn't think anything of it for the first few minutes, but having her looking at him every time he glanced up was starting to get annoying. "Reeves, something you want to say to me?" he teased. Megan opened her mouth, about to respond when David strolled into the office.

David greeted the other two members of his team, although with a bit less enthusiasm than normal. It had been a long night for all of them. Colby came in shortly after David, obviously thrilled to be sitting down to a desk full of mundane paperwork. Colby had only been working for half an hour before Don heard him muttering something about "just want to sleep" and "stupid government forms." The team leader couldn't help but smile at the younger agent's remarks, but looking around brought his gaze back to Megan. She was still watching him.

When Don caught her eye, he raised his eyebrows in the obvious question. Megan hesitated for a moment before nodding and standing. Don still wasn't quite sure what to expect from her. As she closed the gap to his desk, she jerked her head toward one of the glassed-in conference rooms. The clear boards in the room were still covered in Charlie's equations from the kidnapping case. Sighing, Don stood and followed Megan into the room. She closed the door behind them. Again, Don raised an eyebrow at her, but decided to vocalize the question this time. "So, what's this all about, Megan?"

Megan still seemed reluctant to talk, but Don was starting to get impatient. She'd been staring at him for an hour now, she'd pulled him into a closed conference room, and now she still wouldn't speak what was on her mind. Don opened his mouth to start talking when Megan interrupted him. "Charlie came by this morning. He's worried about you."

Frustration and amazement battled within Don. He was angry that Charlie would take his concerns to someone else, especially outside of the family, yet amazed that Megan was actually at work that early. She couldn't have slept more than an hour! Don tried to laugh off the comment. "Charlie and my dad are always worried about me. That's nothing new. I think the FBI pays them to worry that much."

Megan gave him an intense, piercing stare. "You know that's not what I mean. Charlie told me…" she hesitated for a moment. "He told me about the scars. And the newer cuts." The profiler stopped, obviously watching to see how he took the news.

Damn. Charlie had seen too much before Don had managed to put his shirt back on. Don couldn't really be that surprised… Charlie was the family genius after all. He refused to meet his team-mate's eyes. Subtly, he shifted his feet so he and Megan weren't directly facing each other, but both had some view of the rest of the office. His reaction was all that Megan needed to know that Charlie hadn't been mistaken. Don wasn't denying it, but he also wasn't opening up about it.

Also with a subtle shift and side-step, Megan turned to face her team leader again. "Don, this is serious. I know how hard it is to deal with this job, with everything we see. But you have to deal with it."

Finally, Don looked her in the eye. He thought about telling her that she couldn't understand how hard it was. Yes, she saw the carnage and the depravity humans were capable of, but she couldn't know what it was like to be responsible for the whole team. He was the team leader, and the blame fell on him, and him alone, when they failed. No, she couldn't understand, and he couldn't make her understand. "I am dealing with it."

Megan was relieved that at least he was making eye contact, but the cold strength in his voice made her even more concerned. "I know that it might seem like this is dealing with it, but I can't let you keep hurting yourself. There has to be another way."

Don shook his head. "There isn't. I've tried. This is the only way to get rid of the pain." He saw the concern in her eyes, but mistook it for pity. "Don't judge me."

Megan's eyes began to moisten. He just sounded so… resigned. That wasn't something she'd ever seen from Don. "I'm not judging you," she replied softly.

Don's temper started to flare. "Yes you are. You can't even say it. You can't even bear to think about how I deal with my pain." Don turned so he faced away from the windows overlooking the office. With deliberate motions, he loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt. His suit jacket had long since been abandoned at his desk. When his shirt was loose enough, the team leader pulled the neck out so his right shoulder and upper arm were exposed. "Now you've seen it for yourself. Now tell me you aren't judging me."

Megan shifted so she could see. It was hard for her not to react to the number of thin lines covering his arm and shoulder. "Don…" she whispered. "Why? How long? How long have you been cutting yourself?" It didn't take a math genius to count the ten freshest scars all in a row. Ten. The number of murdered girls. But it was obvious that he'd been cutting much longer than that. She stretched out her hand to touch his shoulder, but hesitated, unsure of how her gesture of comfort would be received.

Don pulled away and began to rebutton his shirt. He tightened his tie around his neck before looking back at her. "A couple times when I was younger, but never like this till after I came back to LA."

Blinking away tears, Megan knew that 'coming back to LA' was synonymous with 'when my mother got sick' to Don. "Don, I can help if you'd let me. Or you could talk to a psychiatrist."

Don snorted at the suggestion. "See the department shrink! Yeah… right."

"What about my offer?" Megan didn't want to push too hard, but she wanted Don to get help.

Don shifted his eyes away from her again. "You can't help me," he gruffly whispered, although it was barely audible. "No one can." He moved toward the door.

Megan reached out her hand again and grabbed his arm. "Agent Reeves, get off me!" Don growled.

"Agent Eppes, I can't do that. I can't let you keep doing this to yourself."

"Charlie finds release in his numbers, I find mine in cutting. I'm careful. I don't want to stop, and there's not much you can do about it. It's my only way to deal. Now… let… me… go!" Don's voice had grown louder and stronger with the last four words.

David and Colby had finally noticed that two members of their team were not at their desks. It didn't take long for them to notice the situation unfolding in the conference room. When they saw and heard Don's aggression, they decided to intervene. The door swung open just as Don ripped out of Megan's grasp.

"Whoa, Don," Colby said as Don ran into him. The former soldier was blocking the doorway.

"Everything all right in here?" David asked. Megan looked to Don, but the team leader avoided eye contact with everyone.

"I'm going to take a nap. I'll be back in an hour. Call if something comes up." Don's anger had dulled when the rest of his team had entered. Unsure of what else to do, Colby stepped out of the way so Don could pass. When he was a few steps away, Don turned and ordered to Megan, "Not a word to my family." Then he left.

Megan's eyes followed Don all the way out of the bullpen. She was worried.


	3. Copycat

David and Colby looked back and forth between Don's retreating form and Megan's worried face. "Is everything all right?" David repeated.

Megan didn't want to lie to the team, but she knew Don wouldn't be happy if she blurted out his secret. If nothing else, she would at least give him a little more time. "Don's still worked up over last night. He just needed a little more time to deal with it," she replied. The other two agents seemed to accept her explanation, even though they knew there was probably more to it.

The three team members were dutifully working at their desks when Don returned an hour later. He seemed less agitated than when he had left, but all three managed to avoid eye contact for the first few minutes until they could figure out if he had actually calmed down.

Don's phone started to ring. "Eppes." The team all looked toward him, waiting to see if there was something new for them to investigate. "Right. We'll be there in ten."

Looking between his team's expectant faces, Don began to brief them on the situation. "Another kidnapping. Probably a copycat. Two more girls are missing." He felt drained. Two more girls were going to die, and it would be his fault.

They jumped into two SUVs: David and Colby in one, Megan and Don in the other. Don had already given David and Colby instructions to go to the first crime scene; he and Megan would take the other. As Don drove, Megan regarded him with renewed concern.

"Don, are you okay with this one? I'm sure David, Colby and I could handle it."

Don spared a glance for Megan, filling it with as much resentment as his eyes could convey. "Look. Just because this is the first time you've known about it, doesn't mean it is the first. I've made it through plenty of tough cases just fine." Megan looked like she was about to retort, but Don continued. "Just drop it. Forget about it. It's no big deal, and we've got a case to focus on." After a few moments, he added, "Why do you think I never told anyone?"

While he recognized her concern was just her way of caring about him, it was annoying and getting too personal. Don was not looking forward to talking to his brother later on. The way his day was going, he wouldn't actually get a chance to talk to Charlie today. If the copycat kidnapper followed the same time schedule as the original, the team would be up all night anyway.

Megan and Don arrived at the crime scene to find the same scenario as the last five: a swarm of cops, two distraught parents, and no forensic evidence. A quick call to David showed that the other crime scene was the same. Megan spoke with the parents while Don organized the local cops to canvass the neighborhood.

Two hours later, as expected, no-one had found any useful witnesses or forensics. They had posted an Amber Alert on both girls, and all they could do now was wait for leads. There really wasn't enough data for Charlie to make an equation, so they would just have to wait. If the copycat followed the original timeline, the girls would be dead in thirty-two more hours.

The drive back to the office was silent between Megan and Don. The afternoon was filled with investigating phoned-in tips. Most of the tips were obviously false, but there were occasionally creditable leads that required phone-calls or leg-work. Despite the busy hours of work, Don noticed that Megan was always close to him, and he caught her giving him worried looks more frequently as time passed. Usually, it was pretty easy for Don to bury everything until the end of the case. However, with Megan's consistent silent worrying, Don couldn't help but think about his failures with the previous girls, and how he was probably failing this set of girls, too.

As the afternoon faded into evening, the team still had no solid leads. Don had taken to pacing around the office to relieve some of his frustration. His team was following up on all of the leads they were getting from the tip line, making phone calls and checking records. Colby turned to face his team leader as Don leaned over his shoulder the fourth time in an hour. "Look, Don, I really don't do well with people looking over my shoulder."

Don took a deep breath and apologized before resuming his pacing. As he paced, he made sure not to watch his team too closely. He knew they knew how to do their jobs, the case was just getting to him.

"Go home, Don. It's late, and I'm sure your family wants to see you," Megan ordered.

Don scowled back. "I don't leave until the rest of the team does."

David joined in the debate. "Don, we've got it covered. We'll let you know if anything comes up."

"I'm the team leader, you all don't tell me when to leave. Megan was here first this morning, so I'll go if she goes," he compromised. "We'll take shifts tonight. It's 9 pm right now, Megan and I will be back at 2 o' clock to relieve you and Colby. I'll expect you back at 7 am. Understood?"

David nodded. Colby looked drained, but was ready for Don to stop pacing, so he would agree to just about anything. Don could tell that Megan didn't want to leave, but she would go if it meant he would go home.

With a final reminder to call if any good leads came through, Don and Megan left the office. "Don, you need to talk to Charlie. He was pretty upset this morning."

Don shot her a look, but remained silent as he climbed into his SUV. "I'll see you at 2," was all he said before he drove away.


	4. Bubble

**A/N: Sorry this chapter is shorter. Chpt 5 should be up this week. Disclaimer: Still don't have any claim to Numb3rs or the characters.**

Don didn't want to go inside Charlie's house. Instead, he sat in his SUV in the driveway. After five minutes of just sitting, Don took a deep breath and opened his door. As he approached the front door, Alan swung the door open wide. "Donnie! It's great to see you! You're a bit late to sit down to dinner with us, but I saved you some left-overs, just in case."

Don smiled weakly at his father. He briefly wondered how often the older man saved food for him, hoping he would drop by after his case. His sense of guilt increased at the thought, but he managed to bury it with everything else. "Thanks for saving me some dinner, Pops!" His smile was genuine this time.

While Alan started to reheat the agent's dinner, Don pulled a bottle of beer out of the fridge. His family knew him well, and usually kept the fridge stocked with a few beers. At least, they thought they knew him. Alan sat with Don as he ate, Charlie conspicuously absent. When he'd finished, Don arched an eyebrow at his father. "Where's Charlie?"

"He's been in the garage ever since he got home from CalSci. He seemed really upset about something. I was lucky to get him out of there long enough to eat dinner with me." Alan's incessant worrying was evident on his face and in his voice. Don merely nodded, stood, and left to go to the garage.

Charlie didn't notice Don's entry or greeting. All the blackboards were covered in equations and notes in chalk. The mathematician was scribbling furiously, obviously distressed. In an attempt to not startle his brother, Don approached him from the side and put a hand on the younger man's shoulder.

Despite Don's effort, Charlie jumped at the touch. He turned to look at Don for a second, then turned back to his equations. Taking another deep breath, Don spoke. "Charlie, stop." Charlie either didn't hear or didn't care. The FBI agent gently pulled the professor away from the chalkboard, knowing that Charlie didn't respond well to force. "Charlie, we need to talk."

It was obvious that Charlie didn't want to. Don put himself between Charlie and the chalkboard, still not using force, but trying to pull his brother out of his bubble. "Charlie, why are you so upset?"

That was probably a dumb question, but Don needed to know exactly what Charlie thought about what he had seen that morning.

Charlie still didn't respond. Trying to keep his frustration at bay, Don stepped forward so he was only inches from Charlie's face. He wasn't touching the younger man, but was so close that Charlie would have to acknowledge his presence. Charlie stepped back, but finally made eye contact for a moment. Don noted that the chalk in his brother's hand was shaking.

Looking back at the chalkboard, staring through Don as if he wasn't there, Charlie whispered, "Why would you want to kill yourself, Don?" The professor looked like his world had come crashing down. Don's heart sank, but he kept his face composed, as always.

Don decided that this was the right time to use a little force. As gently as he could, Don firmly steered Charlie to sit down on the couch. He physically turned Charlie's head so he wasn't looking at the chalkboards. "Look at me, buddy. I'm not trying to kill myself. I never have." His voice was quiet, but still firm.

Shaking his head, Charlie responded. "I saw the marks, Don. You can't pretend you don't..." The younger man couldn't finish the sentence.

Closing his eyes briefly, Don forced himself to remain in control. "I know what you saw, but it isn't what you think." Charlie looked like he was about to argue, but Don cut him off. "I promise you, I'm not trying to kill myself. It's… complicated."

Charlie's hurt eyes were locked on Don's right shoulder where he'd earlier seen the fresh cuts. "I don't understand, Don," he whispered.

"I can't expect you to, Buddy. It's just something I do. Like you and your numbers." Charlie looked offended that Don had equated cutting to math. "I'm really careful," Don tried to convince his brother, but Charlie was already back in his math bubble, unaware of the world around him.

Don sighed. That hadn't gone as he had hoped, and he wasn't sure that Charlie was convinced that he really wasn't trying to commit suicide. Charlie returned to his chalkboards, erasing a few letters and replacing them with others.

There was no chance Don would be able to get through to him again tonight.


	5. Back to Work

**A/N: Disclaimer: Same as always, Pinky!  
Thanks to everyone who wrote reviews! Your comments are great to read! I think I have the full plot outline of where this is going, and it looks like it will end around Chpt 9 or 10. I'll keep updating as often as I can, but actually passing my classes has to come first. ;)**

David and Colby had no news when Don and Megan returned to relieve them for a few hours. Sighing, Don sat down at his desk and started to pour over the case files from the previous kidnappings. Maybe this wasn't a copycat, maybe it was an accomplice. If so, Charlie's equation might still yield a good prediction of where the kidnapper was holding the girls.

Megan approached his desk, holding a file in her hands. "Don, I was just thinking, what if this isn't just a copycat?"

The lead agent nearly laughed at the irony. "I was just thinking the same thing. If there was an accomplice to the original kidnappings, all this would make more sense. And we would already have a pattern to go from."

Smiling, Megan nodded. "We could just have Charlie factor in the new data and run his equation again. We still have twenty hours or so before time is up… we could save them."

Don wanted to feel hopeful, but he had been disappointed too many times in the past to be very optimistic. Instead, he would just focus harder on the task at hand. "I don't think Charlie is going to be able to revise the equation for this case." Don avoided eye contact with his team-mate. "He's pretty wrapped up in some other math problem, but it doesn't look like his P versus NP stuff this time."

Megan didn't push the issue at that moment. They still had four more hours before the rest of the office would be coming in to work, so she could afford to wait. "Coffee?" she asked. Don nodded before returning to the files in front of him.

Two hours had passed with no significant changes. A few tips had been called in, but nothing solid had turned up. Megan decided that the current lull in activity would be the best time to corner Don. Casually, she approached his desk, pulling up a chair from the nearest cubicle.

"Did you talk to Charlie?" Her tone was friendly and relaxed, but she knew that the conversation would probably grow tenser as time went on.

Looking away from the case files, Don shrugged noncommittally. "I tried, but like I said earlier, he was wrapped up in some equations." His tone was also relaxed, but Megan could tell that he was hiding something.

"So, he didn't say anything at all to you?" she probed.

"Not much." Don hoped that the vague response would satisfy the profiler, but after a few seconds of pregnant silence, he knew it hadn't. "Charlie didn't understand what he saw. He leapt to… certain conclusions that were wrong, and wouldn't believe me when I tried to explain."

Megan filled in the gaps fairly easily. "So he thinks you want to commit suicide," she supplied.

Don flinched, although it was nearly imperceptible. He didn't like being read so easily. Perhaps this is what it felt like to be on the other side of an interrogation with Agent Reeves. "I tried to tell him differently, but I don't even think he heard me. My little brother is afraid I'm going to end my own life." It was more than just a little fear that Don had witnessed… Charlie was shutting down from terror at the thought. "My dad doesn't know why Charlie is acting like this. Again."

"I think your family deserves the truth, Don." It was all she could tell him. He had rejected her offer to help him stop cutting. Sometimes the only thing that could stop a cutter was facing the consequences of his or her actions. For some cutters, the first time they cut themselves deep enough to require a trip to the ER was all it took. Some had to have a brush with death before they would snap out of what they were doing. But from what Don had said and shown her, he wouldn't cut himself deeply enough to require hospitalization. As bad as it sounded, Don's cutting really wasn't that dangerous. Destructive, but not particularly lethal. Maybe having to own up to his actions, confessing to his family and friends… maybe that is what it would take for Don to quit.

Frowning, Don replied, "They won't hear it from you. That's a direct order." He hoped that Megan wouldn't risk getting punished for disobeying a direct order from a superior officer.

Megan sighed as she stood. From the tone in Don's voice, the conversation was over, and nothing she could say would change it. Times like this made her realize just how similar the Eppes men were to each other. Sometimes, they were too stubborn for their own good.

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At 7 am, David and Colby returned to the office, although they both still looked exhausted. It had been a very long couple of weeks, and it didn't look like it would get much better for the next few days. Don briefed the returning team members on what he and Megan had determined about the kidnapper. Both agents nodded slowly, agreeing with the conclusion.

"Megan and I have been re-examining all the case files all morning, but still can't figure this one out."

Colby glanced at the files spread across every horizontal surface in Don's cubicle. "Maybe we should call Charlie in on this one. The whiz kid managed to solve it for us last time, maybe he can find the new hide-out." Don sighed, but nodded, knowing it was true.

"I'll give him till 7:30. That's what time he woke me up yesterday." Don grinned for a moment, anticipating the brotherly revenge. The smile faded when he realized Charlie might not have actually slept at all, depending on how wrapped up he was in his math. "I guess it is close enough now… I'll go ahead and call."

Don found Charlie's name on his cell phone speed-dial. The phone rang and rang before going to voice-mail. After checking his watch, Don dialed the house number. Alan answered groggily, but sounded much more alert when he recognized Don's voice on the other end.

"Dad, I need to talk to Charlie. Is he still at the house?" Don heard his father thudding through the house, calling Charlie's name. Finally, he heard the noise of the garage door opening, and his father's exclamation.

"Charlie! You've been in here all night! Haven't you slept at all!"

Don couldn't help but smile as his prediction had proven true. He really did know his brother pretty well. He could at least predict how the younger man would act, even if he couldn't begin to fathom what the mathematician was thinking. After a few more seconds, Don heard Charlie's voice on the other end of the line. "Hello?"

"Hey, buddy! I wondered if you could come back to my office today. We need some help with this case…"

As Don feared, Charlie's response was detached. "Don, I can't. I'm really busy with stuff here… I just can't."

Closing his eyes, Don tried to plead with his brother. "Charlie, it won't take that much time. I just need you to run your equation again to find where the kidnapper is hiding two new girls." He always felt pathetic having to nearly beg his brother to help. "I need your help, buddy."

"I… can't," Charlie sobbed before the line went dead.

"Damn!" Don swore under his breath. His team looked up at him abruptly. "Charlie won't do it."

David and Colby's faces were just as confused as the previous morning, when Don had stormed out of the office. Megan's eyes were sorrowful as she watched Don.

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Alan was concerned about his younger son. It had been a long time since Charlie had refused to finish one of Don's cases; nearly two years since Charlie had retreated this severely to his numbers to hide from the rest of the world. Something had happened, but he couldn't tell what. Charlie had been acting strangely since he had come home from school the previous evening. Even Don's visit hadn't helped. If anything, Charlie was worse now. He would make sure to ask Don next time he came to the house. Alan knew his older son was working on a big case, and he didn't want to interrupt with his worrying.


	6. Chuck

**A/N: Another short chapter... sorry. I've been writing during breaks from classes, studying and my 2 jobs, so some of the chapters are shortish. I promise, there will be some longer chapters ahead. Oh yeah... you might not have noticed, but I get a little comma-happy. Other than commas, I try to get all the grammar and spelling as accurate as possible. So, just pardon my commas. :)**

**Disclaimer: Numb3rs is not mine. No money earned from writing this fanfic, either.**

The team of agents worked for the rest of the morning, trying to figure out who the accomplice was. They spent hours interrogating the original kidnapper, but their questioning resulted in nothing. Even the kidnapper's attorney couldn't convince him to rat out his partner for a lesser sentence. The guy was resolute in his silence.

Don called his father again. Charlie had skipped his classes that day and was still working in the garage. After silently debating for a few minutes, Don made his decision. "I'll be back in a little while, guys," he told his team. "I'm going to try to convince Charlie to help us." The other agents were glad to hear that Don was giving it another shot. They'd exhausted all their resources, and according to the timeline, the little girls had less than twelve hours left.

Don spent his entire drive trying to pick what approach he would use with Charlie. It was almost like picking negotiation tactics to use with a criminal who was holding hostages. If he chose wisely, they would have a chance at saving two children. If he chose poorly, Charlie would retreat even further into his bubble, and his team would probably run out of time trying to chase down false leads.

When he pulled into the driveway, Don took a final moment to compose himself. His team was counting on him to convince Charlie to come back and help. If Don couldn't do it, the girls were as good as dead, and it would be his fault. Again.

With a deep breath, Don walked into the garage. Charlie was still frantically working on his chalkboards. Alan's attempts to make Charlie eat were still sitting by the couch. Seeing the uneaten sandwiches, Don decided to help himself. Charlie obviously wouldn't mind. The agent swallowed half the sandwich before trying to talk to Charlie. He set the other triangle down; it could wait till he was done here.

"Charlie," Don's tone carried authority, but he let his voice waiver just a bit. The professor turned his head toward Don, hand still at eye-level where he'd just been writing.

"I can't do it, Don," he whispered raggedly. "I can't let you."

Don frowned. "Can't let me do what, Charlie? What do you think I'm going to do?"

Charlie's head turned back to the board, and his chalk made sharp staccato sounds against the board as he tapped on one equation repeatedly. "I missed something. It's all my fault." He was still whispering, and Don had to strain to hear.

The FBI agent was confused. He couldn't figure out what the equations meant, let alone what Charlie had missed and what was all his fault.

"What did you miss, Charlie?"

"I still haven't found the variable I'm missing. I thought… I thought I'd analyzed your life. But my equation says your strong ties to your family would keep you from trying. I just don't see what I'm missing that would push you over the edge." Charlie's voice had finally come to a normal speaking level, but the tone sounded like Charlie had just realized he was carrying on a conversation.

For the second time in less than 24 hours, Don steered Charlie to the couch, turning him away from all the equations. Maybe he would get through this time. "Charlie, I don't cut to kill myself. I know what it looks like from your point of view, but you have to trust me. I'm careful when I cut, and I only do it when the pain is too much to keep carrying."

Charlie's eyes were actually focused on Don's face, motivating Don to keep going. "Charlie, your help on cases makes the pain more bearable, so I don't have to cut all the time. Just sometimes. But, Charlie, if I can't save these two new little girls, I won't be able to handle all that pain. I need your help. If you can't do it for the kidnapped girls, do it for me. Do it to help me carry the burden." Don's voice was pleading with his brother. He felt more vulnerable than he had in decades. But if that's what it took to save those kids, he would do it.

The two brothers locked eyes for almost a minute before Charlie nodded. "Are you sure I can help?" Don knew his brother wasn't talking about the case, but the burden Don had to carry. Still solemn, Don nodded.

"Let's go, buddy. We've got some new data for you at my office." As Don steered Charlie out of the garage, he saw his father's face in the window. The agent looked his father in the eye and nodded. Alan gave him a relieved half-smile in return.


	7. Raid

**A/N: Standard disclaimer  
So, this chapter is a lot longer... just trying to make up for the last few short chapters. Please review! I have the next chapter written, but I don't think I like it anymore, so it'll be another day or two for me to redo it.  
**

Don was miserable as he and Charlie drove toward the office. It wasn't out of the ordinary for his brother to be in perpetual motion, but the mathematician was actually trembling in the passenger seat. Perhaps he had applied a little too much pressure to get Charlie to work on the case. Delicacy and sensitivity weren't really Don's strong points.

"Hey, buddy," he spoke quietly. "Thanks for helping on this case. If you can figure it out, it would be great. If you can't get it in time… it won't be your fault." Don knew it sounded pathetic, but it was the best he could do at the moment. He realized that because of what he had said earlier, Charlie would not only think it was his fault if the two girls died, but would also think it was his fault that Don would cut again.

Charlie was still hunched over and shivering in his seat. The younger man made no indication that he had heard anything Don had said. Reaching out his hand, Don touched his brother's shoulder. When Charlie flinched, Don pulled his hand back. "Charlie, no matter what happens, it isn't your fault. Even if I…" It was still hard for Don to admit out loud. "Even if I cut, it isn't your fault."

When Don had parked the car, both brothers silently stepped out of the car. Don led the way up to the bullpen, Charlie close behind. David was the first to spot them.

"Charlie! Great to see you!" he called out as the professor walked into the bullpen. David quickly picked up a stack of files from his desk, crossed the distance to where Charlie was standing, and held out the files for Charlie to review. "This is all the data we have from all of the crime scenes." At Charlie's blank stare, David continued. "We think the previous kidnappings involved two kidnappers – the one we caught and an accomplice. The accomplice is still nabbing girls. We think he's following the same pattern as before, so if you can just modify your old equation, maybe you can get some probable addresses again?"

Still seemingly in a daze, Charlie nodded and took the files. He headed to the conference room where his equations were still scribbled across the clear glass boards. He picked up a marker and began to change certain variables to derive a better equation.

"Is Charlie okay?" David didn't hide his concern from his team leader.

All Don could do was shrug. "I think I screwed up," he whispered. "I said some things I shouldn't have." David gave him a questioning look. "I pushed too hard to get him here," Don concluded before walking to his desk.

"Ten hours left," Don announced to the office. The other agents all gave him the same look. They knew how much time was left, and they were all working their hardest to solve the case.

Megan came over to lean on the edge of Don's desk. "What happened?" was all she said.

Looking up at his team-mate, Don sighed. How did she always know? "Why do you think something happened?" He was just being obstinate.

Megan's tone contained derision as she answered the question. "Charlie looks like he was just hit in the face, and you look like you swallowed a cat. He's here, but you don't act like you normally do when we're on the verge of solving a long, drawn-out case. Not to mention the fact that Charlie hasn't stopped shaking since he walked in. So, again I ask, what happened?"

Sighing, Don gave her a half-smile. He was too focused on everything going on to be frustrated with her. "It's like I told David… I pushed too hard to get him here. I said things I shouldn't have said, and I can't take it back. I… I put some of my burden on him. I'm the agent. I'm supposed to be able to handle it. Not him."

Don was afraid that, no matter what the outcome of the case, he had lost Charlie. In his moment of weakness and desperation, he had tried to give some of his guilt from failure to his brother. Alan was never going to forgive him this time. His father counted on him to help pull Charlie _out_ of his bubble, not shove him into one.

Megan watched as Don grew more agitated. He began to sift through his desk drawers, one at a time, obviously searching for something. Finally, he found his pack of gum. As soon as the gum was in his mouth, Don was chewing furiously.

The chewing helped Don deal with the sudden urge to cut. He knew that he couldn't cut… not here. Even if he didn't need to be alone, his knife wasn't at the office. The desire to cut grew quickly inside him, despite his efforts to keep it at bay. More gum. Unfortunately, there was nothing else Don could really focus on. They had already pursued the traditional routes of solving a case, now all they could do was wait on Charlie. Don winced as he felt pangs of guilt. This whole case really was riding on Charlie, and now Charlie knew it. He shouldn't have to face that kind of pressure.

A couple hours passed in a blur for Don. Even though he had been obsessively checking his watch, the time never actually registered in his brain. Only when he checked his pack of gum to pull out a new slice, did he realize how long it had really been. The pack was one of the super-packs with 25 slices of gum. He had only opened the package the day before, so he'd only consumed five sticks of gum before he started to wait on Charlie to get an answer. The pack was empty now. Colby happened to pass by as Don stared in amazement at the empty package of gum.

"Man, you've been chowing down on that gum today! It must be a new record for you… a full pack in less than four hours!" Don tried to smile at Colby's jest, but he was still stunned at the passing of time. Not to mention the fact that he still felt the urge to cut, even twenty sticks of gum later.

Charlie burst out of the conference room. "I've got it, Don! I've got the new list." The professor shoved the sheet of paper into the lead agent's hands. There were four houses on the new list, ranked by probability, from highest to lowest.

"Great work, buddy. I knew you could figure it out! Now it's up to us to save those girls." Don hoped that Charlie would feel off the hook for anything that happened now. It wasn't fair for him to have put that kind of pressure on his brother in the first place, and now it really was up to the FBI agents to do their jobs.

The number of available agents was significantly higher this evening than on the last raid. Don divided up the agents into teams, each assigned to one of the houses on Charlie's list. All teams were advised to wait for Don before moving in, unless the kids were in immediate danger.

Within half an hour, Don had received two negatives from other teams, and the house his team had searched was also cleared. Don loaded up the SUV and gave the order for all units to make their way to the last house. It was further away from the station than the other three, so the initial team hadn't made any conclusions yet. When Don was half-way to the house, he received the radio call that it was the house they were looking for. Don repeated the order to wait until he and his team had arrived.

When Don, Megan, David and Colby arrived on the scene, tactical units had already fanned out around the house, waiting for the order to move. In a matter of seconds, Don's team was out of their SUVs with bulletproof vests secured and weapons ready to go. Don motioned for his team and the tactical units to move in toward the house. They crouched by the walls of the house, Don's team and one entry team poised around the front door. Without having to look around, Don knew that all teams were in position awaiting his command.

Leaning his head toward his shoulder radio, Don quietly began the execute sequence. "I have control, I have control. Stand by… 3… 2… 1… Execute! Execute! Execute!" On his third 'execute', the front entry team smashed a ram through the front door. As soon as the ram connected with the door, the agents were already moving in. Don heard the crashes of the back door and side windows being busted open as all tactical teams made entry. Within moments, the well-oiled machine of FBI teams began to clear rooms. Shouts of "Clear!" resounded from all directions in the house. Don's team made their way up a flight of stairs, closely followed by another team of four. Don's team took the left side of the hallway at the top of the stairs, the other team took the right. David and Colby cleared the first room, Don and Megan the second. Someone on the other team called out an affirmative – he had found the girls and the kidnapper. Don raced down the hallway, weapon drawn and ready.

When he reached the right room, he quickly sized up the situation. It was a small office-like room with no windows; the kidnapper held the girls in front of him. The two girls were tied together, back to back, both mouths covered in duct tape. The kidnapper held a gun to one of the girls' foreheads.

"Get away from me! Now! I'll pull this trigger and blow both their heads off before you can even blink. Now back up!" the kidnapper screamed at the agents.

Don motioned for everyone to back slowly into the hallway. He held his sidearm so it was pointed at the ceiling, his finger straight instead of curled around the trigger. His focus on the mission had overshadowed all emotion for the moment. "Just stay calm, sir," Don soothed. "We're backing up, just let the girls go."

"No! Faster, get them all out of here now!"

Soon, Don was the only agent left in the kidnapper's sight. All the other members of both teams were pressed against the wall of the hallway, just out of view from the doorway. Don had backed up to the threshold of the room. Slowly and smoothly, Don bent down and set his weapon on the floor by his feet. He didn't want to make the weapon available to the kidnapper, but he wanted to look like a minimal threat. Anything to save those girls. Both sets of young, terrified eyes were watching him. Yes, he had to save the girls.

"See, I'm unarmed, I'm no danger to you. Just let the girls go."

Again, the kidnapper refused. Don tried using all the standard negotiation techniques. It was sad that he had managed to hurtfully manipulate his brother, but couldn't figure out how to reach this criminal. It looked like it was going to turn into a long standoff.

Suddenly, something snapped inside the kidnapper. Neither had spoken for over a minute, and Don couldn't figure out what had set the guy off. The kidnapper started to get really agitated, his voice starting from a crazed whisper and rising to a lunatic screaming. He was cussing and nearly spitting at Don to get out.

It was Don's turn to refuse. As gently as he could, the team leader responded. "I can't leave without those girls. Just let them go and I'll pull all the agents out of this house."

"Fine!" the man shouted back at him, just as he pulled the trigger, firing the gun pointed at the girls' heads. Don's team reacted instantly. Don leapt forward to catch the girls, Megan leaned into the doorway and got off a clean shot to the guy's shoulder. As soon as Megan's gun had fired, David and Colby sprang into action. They ran in past Don to catch and restrain the kidnapper. Colby tackled him to the ground while David pulled his arms behind his back and swiftly cuffed them. Ignoring the man's howls of pain, David and Colby lifted him by his arm to his feet and started to drag him out of the room.

Don slowly stood from where the girls had fallen. His clothes were now covered in their blood, but he didn't notice. Megan rushed in to make sure Don hadn't been hit. He assured her that he was fine, and when she had found for herself that he really was, she led him out of the house. David and Colby had successfully subdued the kidnapper, now seated in the back of one of the SUVs. After looking to Don for approval, the pair climbed into the front seat of the SUV and drove off.

Don's head was reeling. He saw a pair of EMTs carrying the girls' bodies down the stairs and into an ambulance. Their deaths hadn't fully hit home yet, but he knew they would. Very soon. And he wanted to be done with his paperwork and back in the solitude of his apartment when it happened. Gesturing to Megan, they returned to their SUV to head back to the FBI Headquarters.

As determined as Don was to get done quickly so he could be alone at home, Megan was just as determined to not let him.


	8. Confrontation

**A/N: Thanks for all the reviews! I've written this chapter three times now, every time with a completely different concept of the confrontation. This was the version I was most satisfied with. Enjoy!**

Don stared blankly at his computer screen. He was supposed to be typing up his After Action Report about the raid, but he couldn't focus. In fact, the only thing he could think about was the knife sitting by his couch at his apartment. Days like this made him wish he carried the knife with him, but he never would… it was too dangerous, too tempting.

His team was out of sight for the moment, but Don neither noticed nor cared. All he really wanted to do was go home. Two more cuts is all it would take. Two more thin lines and he wouldn't feel like an elephant was sitting on his chest.

Having chewed all of his gum in the hours leading up to the raid, Don had nothing to take his mind off of cutting. He shook his head, trying to get rid of the urge. He needed to finish his paperwork before he could leave. Other than the twenty pieces of gum that he had chewed in rapid succession, Don hadn't eaten since he had snatched part of a sandwich in the garage while trying to convince Charlie to help him on the case. Yet, hunger hadn't even entered his mind, as it was fully consumed by the desire to cut.

Megan watched Don from a few yards behind him. She hadn't taken her eyes off of him for more than a minute or two since they had returned to the office. It was worrisome that he hadn't even noticed her staring at him. Right now, he had been hovering over his keyboard for more than fifteen minutes without making a single keystroke. She couldn't wait any longer to confront him again.

Glancing at David and Colby's desks to make sure they were still dutifully filling out their paperwork, Megan snuck up behind Don and tapped him on the shoulder. "Come to the conference room," she quietly ordered. Don seemed reluctant to move, but she repeated the command, adding an emphatic "Now!" to the end of it. Although he still looked rebellious, Don stood slowly. Megan led him to the conference room and shut the door behind him.

"I really need to get my paperwork finished," Don began, but Megan quickly interrupted.

"Don, you haven't even started your paperwork. All you've done since we got back was stare through your computer screen. The screen saver came on five minutes ago, and you didn't even notice."

Don didn't manage to keep the surprise off his face. He _hadn't_ seen the screen saver come on, far too absorbed in his own thoughts.

"Since you obviously weren't thinking about what you were writing, tell me what you were thinking about." Megan's tone brooked no argument. Rather than arguing, however, Don stayed silent, staring determinedly at the floor.

"Fine, if you aren't going to tell me, let me take a guess. Let me know if I'm wrong. You can't stop thinking about the girls that died tonight. You probably remember how they kept looking at you the whole time, thinking you were going to save them. You remember how you hurt Charlie by what you said to him earlier. But most of all, you want to make the number of lines on your right shoulder a nice, even dozen. You disagree with any of it?" she asked, waiting for some response, _any_ response from the team leader. He shook his head slightly, eyes closed. He wanted to pretend she wasn't there, that no-one was around, and that he was all alone.

"Don, look at me." His eyes slowly opened and met hers. "You have a really big problem." His eyes slid away again.

"I'm fine," he whispered.

"You're not fine, Don," Megan spoke very softly. She didn't want him to think she was judging him, like he had yesterday, but she had to pull him out of the lies he was telling himself. "You're a junkie."

Don's eyes snapped back to Megan's face, irate. "Don't you dare call me a junkie! I do _not_ use drugs!" His voice was hard, but still quiet.

"I'm not saying you take drugs. I'm telling you that you are acting like a junkie. You're addicted, and you don't even know it. But your addiction isn't something you can buy or taste… you're addicted to cutting. You have all the signs. You won't admit that your behavior is destructive and wrong." She held up one finger. "When you aren't doing it, you can't stop thinking about it. I saw you chomping piece after piece of gum earlier." Two fingers. "You react defensively when anyone brings it up." Three fingers. "You don't think you can deal with your problems without it." Four fingers. "Need I go on?" she asked.

Don didn't want to believe what his teammate was telling him. He couldn't be an addict. Yet, nothing Megan had said was untrue. He wanted to cut, even more now than ten minutes ago.

Megan knew she had Don's attention now, although she hated having to do this. She knew that after he quit cutting, he might appreciate what she had done, but right now… it was going to be tough for Don to get over what she had already said, but what she was about to say had the potential to cause irreparable damage to their friendship. Still, what is right isn't always easy, and she knew what she was about to do was right.

Carefully watching his facial expressions and body language, Megan continued as softly as she could. There was no way to really soften the blow she was about to give. "Don, I have no choice at this point. I have to tell Merrick."

Don's eyes glistened. "No. You can't."

"Don, I have to. This is part of my job. Just like I would have to tell you if I thought David or Colby were having problems. I have to tell your supervisor."

The weight in Don's chest was too much to bear. His breathing grew rapid and shallow. "You can't," he repeated in a whisper.

It hurt Megan to do this to him, especially after coming off a case that had been so hard on all of them, but especially Don. "I'm sorry, I really am. But I can't let you keep hurting yourself. You need help, and as your friend and colleague, I'm morally obligated to make sure you get that help. And right now, that requires me going to Merrick."

"This job and my family are all I have left. Don't take them away from me," he plead. Megan had never heard Don speak like this, and it broke something inside of her. But she couldn't give in to it. She knew that submitting a report like this had the potential to cost her team leader his job. She would do everything she could to not let it come to that, but she couldn't hide the truth any longer.

"Don. I have to report this, but you can make a choice right now that will determine how I write my report. This doesn't have to cost you your job, but that is totally up to you." Don's breathing hadn't improved, but she had to continue. "If you agree now to get help, it will go in my report. If you agree now, rather than later, you might be able to keep your job. If you keep refusing, as you have for the past thirty-six hours, I really doubt that you will still be a team leader, if they even let you continue working for the FBI. This is really serious."

Don's eyes were closed, and his forehead was covered in sweat as if he was working really hard. In truth, he was fighting the crushing weight in his chest, afraid that he might be having a heart attack. He couldn't breathe deeply, his chest was too tight.

Megan paused as she watched Don. He wasn't taking this very well, and it looked like he might pass out from hyperventilating. She touched his hand with hers. "Don," she said softly. "Breathe. Just breathe. It's going to be alright. Just breathe." When his breathing didn't improve, Megan tried a different strategy. "Don, breathe with me." She tried to get him to watch her, but his eyes were still tightly shut. She breathed deeply and audibly, "In through the nose, out through the mouth". She repeated the mantra several times, but Don either wasn't listening to her or couldn't control his breathing.

Letting go of his hand, Megan took the three steps to the conference room door, pulled it open, and shouted at the rest of her team. "David, Colby, one of you get a paper bag. Now!" The two men shot each other confused looks, but at the urgency in her voice, hurried to find a paper bag. David was the first to find one, and he ran to the conference room to hand it to Megan. She shook it open and put it over Don's mouth and nose. After a minute or so, Don's breathing returned to a more normal frequency and depth. His eyes were still shut and his whole body was covered in sweat, but he wasn't panicking anymore.

Megan indicated that David and Colby, who were standing at the door with worried, confused expressions, should leave. They hesitated, but she gave them a stare that indicated she would not tolerate disobedience at the moment. She shut the door behind them and returned to face Don.

"Don, look at me." It seemed like she was saying that far too often of late. His eyes opened and she noticed that they were glistening with unshed tears. It was the closest to crying she had ever seen him, but he blinked a few times and the moment was gone. "I'm going to turn in my report, but I'm giving you until Monday to decide what you want to do." Making sure he was still paying attention and maintaining eye contact, she continued. "I really want you to get help before Merrick forces you to do so. All I'm asking you to do is three things. One: see a psychiatrist. I don't care if it is the 'department shrink,' as you like to call him, or someone else. I know that the psychiatrists who work for the FBI would have a lot of experience helping people work through the same issues you deal with. But I'm not telling you who you have to see. Just someone. Two: voluntarily undergo a cursory medical exam every week. All they'd be doing is checking to see whether you cut yourself – anywhere – every week. Three: talk to your family. Tell your father, and talk to your brother. You said some rough things to him earlier, but he will forgive you if you open up to him. That's it. You agree to those three things, and I'll put it in my report, along with a recommendation that you retain your status as a Supervisory Special Agent, along with your position as team leader. If you refuse, and Merrick asks for my opinion, I'll have to honestly tell him that without help, I don't think you can continue your current role in the FBI." Megan had internally debated about whether to tell him the last part, but she had to be honest with him. As with any suspect in an interrogation, voluntary cooperation would significantly help him, and refusal to cooperate would cost him.

Don's posture reflected his stubborn pride, so Megan added her conclusion before he spoke. "Think hard about this, Don. I'm giving you all day tomorrow and Sunday before you have to give me an answer. I'll write up two drafts of my report, and on Monday morning, you can rip up one of them. If you decide not to agree to my three conditions, I _will_ talk to your father on Monday afternoon. He deserves the truth, and he will get it one way or the other."

Don didn't respond except to glare angrily at her. Megan wasn't really surprised with his reaction. She had said a lot of things that would make anyone angry, she just hoped that he wouldn't be so stubborn and proud to take her words and offer to heart. She was thankful, however, that he wasn't angry enough to try to take a swing at her. Yet, it was also bad that he wasn't releasing his anger, but letting it build inside. That tendency to bury what he was feeling had gotten him to this point.

"One last thing, Don. If you think I'm asking too much of you, remember that you will be talking to Merrick on Monday. And if you think my requests are too much, I'm sure you won't like what he requires. I might recommend taking a week or two of vacation, since no matter what, Merrick is probably going to restrict you from field duty for a while. At least until you have shown that you are taking the counseling seriously, and that you aren't going to cut yourself anymore."

With one curt nod, Don walked out of the conference room and back to his desk. His fingers pounded on the keyboard, having to backspace after every few letters to correct an errant letter in his After Action Report. The urge to cut was as strong as ever, but before he could go home, he had to finish this report. David tried to ask if Don was alright, but was quickly silenced with a death-glare from the team leader.

Fifteen minutes later, Don pulled his report off of the printer, signed it, and put it in the manilla folder with the rest of the case files. He picked up his coat and stormed toward the office door. Megan ran toward him, trying to catch him before he left. "Think about my offer!" she called out as she came close to catching up to him. "And Don, please, for Charlie's sake, don't cut tonight." The last was almost a whisper so it wouldn't be overheard by anyone else.

Don didn't give an answer, but walked out the door.


	9. Despair

**A/N: So, my estimate of 9-10 chapters was a bit low. I'll keep writing and see how many more chapters it takes to finish the story. Thanks again for all the reviews! The next chapter will be up soon. Very soon.  
**

Don climbed into his SUV, slamming the door shut when he was in. He was furious with Megan, but the rage only masked the other emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. His fingers drummed on the steering wheel as he sped to his apartment. Focusing solely on his urge to cut, Don arrived in his apartment parking lot without remembering anything from the drive. Hopefully he had obeyed all traffic laws, but right now he wasn't too concerned.

Don took the steps to his apartment two and three at a time, just wanting to get inside so he could bleed out all the weight in his chest. Within moments, he had unlocked his door, closed it behind him, found his knife, and pulled off his shirt. Two lines for the little girls he had failed. He couldn't get their eyes out of his head. When the lines were drawn and blood trickling down his right arm, Don tried to breathe deeply.

It didn't work. He was still a failure, despite the cuts. They had helped some, but not enough. There were too many other people he had failed in the last thirty-six hours for two lines to cover it all.

Looking at his right shoulder, now decorated with twelve red lines, all in different stages of healing, Don knew he shouldn't cut there again tonight. Switching sides, he now held his knife in his right hand and his eyes examined his left arm. All the scars on his left side were at least a month old. It would be safe to cut there again.

One stripe for failing his team. One for trying to put his own burden on Charlie's shoulders. One for letting Charlie see his self-inflicted wounds, the event that had started the whole mess. One for hiding the truth from his family and friends. One for not telling his father why his brother was secluding himself in the garage again. Megan's final words of the night came back to him. "For Charlie's sake, don't cut tonight." One final cut for letting Charlie and Megan down. His right hand was stronger and more coordinated than his left, meaning the knife pressed further into his skin with each pass of the blade. He let out an audible hiss at the sharp pain of the last cut. Blood was still trickling out of his right shoulder, and was now oozing out of the six new gashes on his left arm.

Exhausted but now at peace, Don passed out on his couch again. He hadn't bothered to clean his knife or cuts tonight – he would just worry about it in the morning.

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Sunlight beaming through the window woke Don the next morning. Still sleepy, he opened his eyes to check the time. It was past nine o'clock. He felt a little guilty at first for sleeping so late, but quickly forgave himself when he realized it was a Saturday, and he hadn't actually had a full night of sleep in two weeks. Pushing himself up to a sitting position, Don noticed a blood stain on the cushion where his shoulder had been resting. He swore out loud and flipped over the cushion so the stain was on bottom. He really needed to be more careful next time. Staining his furniture and letting wounds go untreated wouldn't be good.

He carefully showered, making sure to clean all of the new cuts. They were a little redder than his injuries usually were, but that was probably because he hadn't cleaned, iced, and applied antibiotic ointment to them immediately. Oh well. They didn't look infected; they just stung a little more than normal. He deserved all of the pain he felt.

After showering and eating breakfast, a meal Don rarely had time to indulge in, he started to contemplate Megan's deal. It almost seemed like blackmail, but the rational side of him knew that it was her responsibility to report him. The other part of him was still furious with her. Everything she said had made him feel like she had stabbed him in the heart, and then twisted the knife. He was her partner, how could she betray his confidence like this? Didn't she care that it would probably cost him his job? How could Charlie go talk to _her_! Why couldn't Charlie have just kept his mouth shut or confronted him as a brother? Why had Charlie gone to his coworker?

In the midst of his brooding, his cell phone began to ring. Don picked it up and checked the caller id before answering. Megan. What the hell did she want? Maybe to twist the knife a little more? Despite his suspicions, it was still possible that she was calling him to come to work on a new case. With great reluctance, Don accepted the call. "Eppes," he snapped into the mouthpiece.

"Don? You alright?" came the reply.

"What do you think?" he retorted. "Am I needed at the office or a crime scene?" He was being blunt past the point of rudeness.

"No," her voice sounded like she was a little taken aback.

Before she could continue, Don interrupted, "Fine. See you Monday." He snapped the phone shut.

After a few seconds, the phone rang again. Checking the caller id again, he saw that Megan was trying to call back. He hit the button to ignore the call so it would go straight to voice mail. Surely she would get the hint. Almost a minute passed before the phone chirped to alert him that he had a new voice mail message. Don ignored it for now. If it wasn't related to work, it wasn't urgent.

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Don was still angry at noon. Megan had tried to call back three times, but he ignored the call every time. He hadn't even checked his voice mail.

He knew there really shouldn't be anything to debate. Megan was right in telling him that if he rejected her offer, he would lose his job, probably altogether. He hadn't been exaggerating when he had told her that his job and his family were the only things he had in his life. It felt like he'd already lost Charlie, and when he told Alan, he would probably lose his father, too. And there was a strong possibility that even if he took Megan's deal, he would lose his job, or at least receive a demotion.

For the first time since he'd woken up, despair replaced his anger. He was watching everything in his life come crashing down before his eyes. He wished that he could turn back the clock by a couple days, that he would have put on a shirt before opening the door to let Charlie in. Don's world was about to shatter, and it was entirely his own fault.

His phone rang again and he picked up without thinking. "Eppes," he spoke, ashamed that his voice was thick with emotion.

"Don, it's Megan. Don't hang up!"

Don was silent.

"Are you okay?" she asked, concern evident in her voice.

Unsure of how to respond, Don hesitated. He didn't want to lie to her, but he was also wary of her help. So far, it looked like her help was going to cost him his job, and maybe his family.

Megan had been afraid of this. That's why she had been calling every few minutes. She knew that her boss was angry with her when he left, but she knew that reality would eventually hit, and what she had said to him was going to leave him more hurt than mad. "Are you still mad at me?" she probed, hoping he would say something.

"Yes… no… I don't know," he replied haltingly. He wasn't really sure. He was definitely still angry at the situation, and afraid of what help she might give. Angry at her? Maybe, maybe not.

Not for the first time in the last twenty-four hours, Megan questioned whether she had done the right thing. As far as her job went, yes, she did the right thing. But on a more personal level, she was afraid that she might have pushed Don over the edge of the slippery slope from cutting to contemplating suicide.

"Should I come over?"

"No." His response was quicker and surer this time. Even if he wasn't still angry at her, he would prefer to deal with it on his own.

"Charlie called me to see how you were doing." She changed the subject, hoping to keep him talking. "I didn't tell him about the case. I was going to suggest that you call him, but maybe you should wait awhile."

The words stung more than Don would admit. It hurt that Charlie was afraid to call him himself. Don also understood what Megan was implying – that if he called Charlie right now, he would hurt his brother even more than he had yesterday.

"Don?" The only indication that he was still on the phone was his ragged breathing.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and hung up.


	10. Decisions

When the line went dead, Megan stared at her cell phone for several seconds before closing it. As soon as she shut the phone, she was up and moving. She had called from her apartment, only about a fifteen minute drive from Don's. She thought she knew what he was about to do, and she wanted to stop him before he went too far.

Deciding that there was a possibility Don was going to kill himself, intentionally or not, she flipped on her lights and siren to move traffic out of her way. Without the added time for traffic, Megan managed to arrive at Don's apartment in nine minutes flat. She sprinted up the stairs and pounded on his door.

* * *

After closing his phone, Don stumbled to his couch and dropped it there. His hands were shaking from the renewed feelings of failure and inadequacy. His t-shirt was now damp with sweat from the mix of emotions he'd gone through all morning. Pulling a wet shirt off with trembling hands was proving to be more difficult than he expected. He picked up his knife; it was still tinged with blood from the previous night's cutting session. Looking up and down both arms, Don tried to decide where to cut. Both shoulders were lined with relatively fresh cuts. Despite that, he didn't think the pain he was feeling would be released with such a shallow cut. 

Finally, he chose a point close to the middle of his forearm, on the inside. There were a couple veins there that he could see, but that was okay for now. Maybe more blood would help ease the pain inside. Hand still trembling, Don positioned the knife across his left arm. As he started to dig the tip of the knife into the beginning of the line he wanted to make, someone started beating on his door.

Staying silent, Don hoped that the visitor would think he wasn't home. The pounding continued for half a minute before the knocker called out. "Don, it's Megan! I know you're in there. Open the door!"

Changing strategies, Don hollered back. "Go away!"

"I can't do that, Don. Now open the door or I'll kick it in!" Don wondered if she was bluffing. Surely she wouldn't kick in his apartment door. "I'm not playing with you, Don. Open the damn door!" she repeated when it was evident Don wasn't going to comply. "Final warning. I'm kicking it open in five seconds!"

Don took another second to decide. Knife still in hand, he swung the door open enough to poke his head out just as Megan was stepping back so she would have the range to kick. "What?" he demanded.

"Let me in, Don."

"No." Don started to slam the door shut, but Megan slid her foot across the threshold. Her shoe took the force of the door, which then rebounded several inches. She slid in through the opening before Don had a chance to try to close it again.

The team leader turned away from her quickly, but not before she had seen the eight new lines on his shoulders. Megan closed her hand around his bicep, forcing him to turn back to face her. He was too broken to resist other than giving her a death-glare. Only when he had turned did she see the bloody knife in his right hand. She reached as if to take it from him, but Don found the energy to hold on to it with a steely grip. Megan let go of his arm and withdrew her hand from her attempt to take the knife. She quickly took note of all the new injuries he had inflicted upon himself. Two new lines on the right shoulder… obvious cause. Six on the left shoulder… who knows why? One bead of blood forming on his forearm. Trying not to let anger show on her face, Megan lightly grasped his left wrist. When he tried to pull away, her grip tightened. The two stared at each other for a moment before Megan looked between his arm and the knife. It had dried blood on it, but the tip was glistening. Apparently he wasn't as careful as he had assured her.

Before she could try to help, she needed to figure out what had driven him to cutting last night, other than the kidnapping. "Don," she started quietly, still holding his wrist. "I understand what those two lines are for," she indicated the eleventh and twelfth lines on his right shoulder. "But I don't understand what these are for," she pointed to his left shoulder.

Don wouldn't look her in the eye, but responded in a whisper, "Personal failings."

Megan wasn't sure quite what he meant, but she wasn't sure if more probing would help. She decided to try one more time, but if he didn't answer, she wouldn't keep pushing. "What sort of personal failings?"

Don continued to look at the floor. "I'm sorry," he whispered, but wouldn't say anything else.

She had a theory, but wasn't sure if it was right. She didn't want to keep pressing the issue and risk pushing him further into despair. Deciding to act on her theory, Megan tried to provide some comfort. "You haven't failed me, or the team. Charlie's a grown man… he'll be okay." She let go of his arm and watched it fall limply to his side. Walking further into the apartment, she found his discarded t-shirt and tossed it to him. As much as she wanted him to confront his issues and recognize that his behavior was destructive, she knew this wasn't the right time. She sat down at his kitchen table and waited for him to join her.

Don pulled on the still-damp shirt awkwardly, all the while maintaining his death grip on his knife. He knew that Megan was determined to make him stop cutting. She'd already gone to such lengths that there was really no way that he could refuse her deal, unless he wanted to give up his job. But he still had his knife, and he didn't have to give his decision until Monday. He still had a little control, for thirty-six more hours. No matter what Megan did or said, he would _not_ give up his knife.

Sitting down across from Megan, Don started to drum his fingers on the table. She had interrupted him before he could finish cutting. Without completing the cut, there could be no release. Without release… he didn't even want to finish that thought.

"You want lunch?" Megan asked. Still drumming on the table, Don looked up at her.

"I want you to leave. I need to be alone," he responded.

Glancing at the knife in his hand, Megan shook her head slowly. "I'm not leaving," she stated.

After a long stare-off between the two agents, Don played his best card. He really wanted to wait to use it, but the pain in his chest was too intense. He needed to get rid of it, but he could only do that if Megan left. Taking a deep breath, he hoped it would work. "I'm going to take your deal. I just need the rest of the weekend to really come to grips with it. Please, just let me stay alone until Monday."

Megan was surprised at Don's admission. To be honest, she thought he would have held off until the last minute to announce his decision, in typical stubborn-Eppes fashion. Yet, even if he was going to get help starting Monday, she didn't want to leave him alone to hurt himself over the weekend. It looked like she had just stopped him from slashing his forearm and a number of veins. She didn't want to risk Don cutting excessively and bleeding out just because this was his last opportunity.

Abruptly standing, Megan reached for her cell phone and walked away from the table. Don got excited for a moment, thinking she was leaving, but was severely disappointed when she walked into his bedroom, shutting the door behind her. When she reemerged after a couple minutes, Don was curious as to whom she called.

"I've got to go, but I'll be back really soon." Megan wasn't really interested in leaving, but she needed to go, just for a while. When Don's eyes lit up at the prospect of her leaving, she added, "Don't hurt yourself while I'm gone."

Don didn't respond, but watched as his partner reluctantly walked out of his apartment.


	11. Backup

**A/N: Two in one day! Hope you like it!**

* * *

Don capitalized on Megan's absence. Returning to the couch, he touched the knife blade to the point where he'd earlier broken the skin on his forearm. He didn't bother taking off his shirt this time – the sleeves were short enough not to interfere. His hand was shaking again. 

After taking several deep breaths, Don steadied his hand. The knife bit into his arm on the first swipe. A thin layer of blood seeped out of the cut. The pain in his chest was still there. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his chest, Don cut again along the same line. More blood ran out of the gash. The veins were still intact. The pain was still there. One final slash of the knife. Don exhaled sharply. He still hadn't felt any release of the pain in his chest, despite the blood that was streaming down his arm.

Closing his eyes, the agent pressed his eyes into his palms, putting his elbows on his knees. With his head cradled in his hands, Don started to shake as if sobbing, but there were no tears. Why wouldn't the pain just go away? Cutting had never failed him before.

* * *

Megan sped away from Don's apartment. Having seen and talked to him now, she no longer thought he would intentionally kill himself. Not today at least. She knew that he would cut while she was gone, but hopefully he wouldn't accidentally cut too deep. Her presence at his apartment was only keeping him from cutting, but wasn't helping in any other way, so she was resorting to another option to help her boss. 

The minutes seemed like hours as she drove. After what felt like an eternity, she had arrived at the Eppes' house. Alan was pleasantly surprised to find her on the doorstep after she had knocked, but Megan spared little time for pleasantries and small talk with the head of the Eppes clan. Her target for now was Charlie. She really hoped Don would follow up on all three conditions she had laid out, and that he would talk to his father before Monday afternoon.

Alan directed her to the garage where Charlie was wrapped up in his math. Megan, like all the agents on Don's team, had learned ways to get Charlie's attention without startling him. The younger man had earphones in, listening to his mp3 player as he worked.

Walking up to his side, Megan gently pulled one of the ear-buds out of the mathematician's ear. Charlie didn't jump very high, but turned to look at Megan while pulling out the other ear-bud. "What's up, Megan?" he asked. She hadn't been very specific on the phone, just asking where he was and telling him to stay there.

"Charlie, I need your help with Don." At the youngest Eppes' questioning look, she continued. "He's not doing very well, and I'm not really getting through to him. I thought maybe you could do better."

Charlie's expression saddened and he turned back to his chalkboard. Placing a hand on his shoulder, Megan employed her best persuasion skills. "Charlie, I know this is hard for you. I know it hurts, and you don't understand why Don would do something like this. But right now, Don needs your help, and it's more than just solving a case."

The professor shook his head. "I can't," he whispered. "I already let him down… if you can't help him, I won't be able to."

Rolling her eyes at how similar the Eppes brothers were, Megan continued. "I know that's what you think, but you didn't let him down. Not at all. He said a lot of things he didn't mean to say, and he doesn't blame you at all. For anything. He thinks he let _you_ down, and nothing I can say will change his mind. Please, Charlie. Don needs you, and you alone can help him right now."

Slowly, Charlie nodded. "I'll try," he acquiesced. The task just seemed so difficult. Probabilities began to flash through his mind as Megan led him to her car. Probabilities that he would actually be able to help, and probabilities that he would make things worse. Once he could see Don and better assess the situation, the numbers would be more precise and accurate, but for now, it looked like even if he couldn't help, his attempt probably wouldn't make Don any worse.

Megan briefed Charlie on the situation as she drove back to Don's apartment. She'd been gone for the better part of an hour, and was afraid to see what state Don would be in when she returned. She tried to prepare Charlie for what she knew he would see, and what might have happened in her absence.

* * *

Finally, they had arrived, and Megan led the hesitant mathematician to Don's front door. Knocking garnered no response. Sighing, she tried the doorknob. Fortunately for them, Don hadn't locked it behind her when she had left. Megan made sure to be the first to enter, unsure of what they might find. 

The first thing she saw when they entered the living room was Don sitting on the couch, head still in his hands. He didn't even appear to notice their presence. Megan knelt on the floor beside him, only then noticing the knife that must have fallen out of Don's hand. She picked it up, flipped the blade shut, and started to look her boss over. It looked like the only new cut was on his left forearm, continued from where the drop of blood had been forming when she'd seen him earlier.

His arm was covered in blood down to the elbow, blood also staining the left knee of the pants he was wearing. He still hadn't acknowledged that they were there, even though she was right beside him. Gently, Megan pulled his left hand away from his face and started to examine his arm. The blood on his arm was mostly dry, and the cut itself was already clotting. She figured that he'd probably cut as soon as she left, and had been sitting here like this ever since.

Don finally dropped his other hand and looked at her. "Happy now?" he groaned.

"Why should I be happy, Don?" Megan was legitimately confused.

"Didn't work," he muttered.

Megan was about to answer, but looked up sharply when she heard a choked sob. Charlie was staring at his older brother's arm, hand covering his mouth. Megan stood and pulled Charlie aside. "I can't do this," he whispered in a panic.

"You can do this, Charlie," she reassured him. "For Don." After a few long seconds of contemplation, Charlie nodded. Megan walked back to where Don was still sitting, seemingly in a daze. Before sitting down beside him again, she motioned for Charlie to get something to clean his brother's injury.

"So it didn't help this time?" she asked softly. Don buried his face in his hands again as he shook his head. "I'm sorry it didn't help, Don," she added. In some ways, she really was sorry. He had cut himself pretty deeply, just to find that it didn't help. On the other hand, maybe seeing that cutting wouldn't always release his pain would help him quit. For a moment, she was afraid of what else he would turn to in order to find the release that he needed. Yet, that's what he would be seeing a therapist about.

Charlie had returned with a wet towel and some liquid soap. He had found the Neosporin close to the kitchen sink and had decided to bring it with him. Steeling himself, Charlie sat down beside Don and pulled his left arm toward him. He did his best to clean off all the blood, but some of it was too dry to come off without hurting Don more. When the wound was as clean as he could manage, Charlie applied some antibiotic cream to the gash. Only when Charlie put Don's arm back across his lap did Don notice he was there.

Suddenly active, Don jerked his arm away and curled it up, as if trying to hide the self-inflicted cut from his younger brother. Charlie looked to Megan, who nodded, stood, and left.

Charlie was on his own now with Don, although Megan didn't go very far. Minutes passed in silence between the two brothers. Don was staring at the floor, and Charlie was focused on his brother's face. Charlie was the first one to break the silence.

"Hey, Donnie."


	12. Hope

**A/N: Disclaimer: Still don't own 'em.**

* * *

"Hey Donnie."

Don looked over at his brother, but couldn't say anything in response. He had caused his genius brother too much pain already, and he didn't trust himself not to say something that would make matters worse.

"Why, Don?" When the agent still didn't respond, Charlie asked again. "I want to understand, please help me understand why you did this. Why you do this," he corrected himself.

Don looked away from his brother. Maybe if he ignored the pain he saw in the younger man's face, it would go away. Maybe if he pretended the gash in his arm didn't exist, it would disappear. If only he could make the pain in his own heart fade away.

"I'm sorry, Charlie," he whispered, the professor having to lean in to hear his words. "I didn't want to hurt you."

Charlie's eyes watered, but no tears fell. He had to stay strong for his brother. Even if he couldn't wipe the pain off of his own face, he would try to be the strong one for Don to lean on. Yet, he couldn't completely lie to his brother by telling him that he hadn't been hurt at all.

"I'll be okay, Don. I know you didn't mean to hurt anyone," Charlie assured him.

"I just… let so many people down." Don's trembling voice was a little louder than a whisper now, so Charlie didn't have to lean in quite as close to hear.

"It'll be okay. No one expects you to be perfect." The way Don hunched his shoulders a little told Charlie that he didn't believe him.

"You're good at your job," Charlie tried to keep up the string of encouragement. "But nobody can ever be perfect at it. And they don't expect you to be." Seeing that Don was still closed off, he continued. "_I _don't expect you to be."

Don looked back to Charlie with a surprised, somewhat hopeful expression. "You don't?" Charlie gave him a little smile and shook his head gently.

"I don't," the mathematician agreed. "Is that why you do this? Because you aren't perfect? You're allowed to be human, you know."

Don closed his eyes and swallowed, shaking his head sadly. "Not me." He was back to whispering.

"Don, everyone makes mistakes. Everyone fails." Don was still shaking his head. He didn't know how to explain to Charlie that his failures were worse than most people's. How if Charlie failed, it was just his reputation, or his pride, or a math problem. But if Don failed, it would cost lives – his team's and innocent people's. He couldn't afford to fail.

Charlie was getting desperate. He thought he'd gotten through to Don that no one expected him to be perfect, but now Don was still refusing to believe that he was allowed to fail.

"I don't want you to fail, Don, but nobody blames you when you do."

Again, Don refused to believe it.

"Nobody blames you," Charlie repeated.

Don poked his index finger into his own chest. Even without speaking, he hoped Charlie would understand.

"You blame yourself? Don, that's not healthy." Charlie almost laughed in hindsight at what he had just said. Like anything in this entire situation was _healthy_. "You have to stop blaming yourself."

"Hurts too much," Don whispered back.

"So that's what this is about? You hurt, so you have to get it out?" Charlie felt like he was finally starting to understand why Don was a cutter. He still couldn't imagine it, but the reasoning was starting to make sense.

Don nodded slowly, eyes tightly shut.

"Does that really work?" Charlie asked. For him, retreating into numbers and equations helped him escape harsh reality, but he always had to face it eventually.

"Usually," Don replied.

"So what do you do when it doesn't work?"

Don shrugged. "It always worked before tonight." Charlie sighed as he more fully understood the earlier communication between Don and Megan.

"So you need to do something else to get rid of the pain." It was intended to be a statement, but Don shrugged as if answering a question.

Charlie's mind raced for alternative solutions. Alcohol was an equally poor solution – temporarily drowning your sorrows until a later time. Not to mention the potential for dangerous drunken behavior or addiction. It seemed that the real problem was that Don didn't know how to actually face the pain, other than to cut.

"You could hit something," Charlie suggested. Don shook his head. "You could hit me." Charlie meant it as a joke, knowing Don would never purposely hit him.

Don laughed. He actually laughed at the idea. Hitting his younger brother to release the pain. An FBI Supervisory Special Agent hitting a scrawny, untrained mathematician. Ludicrous.

Don's laughter faded as he thought deeper into the suggestion. He would never hurt Charlie on purpose, if he could help it. It saddened him that Charlie would bring it up. Surely the younger man knew that he wouldn't hurt him.

Charlie's face lit up when Don laughed. Maybe he was actually getting through to the man. The moment didn't last for long, but it had happened. There was still hope.

"Why did you go to Megan, Charlie? Why didn't you come to me?" Don was serious again; the rapid change threw Charlie off for a second.

Recovering from the mild surprise, Charlie hesitated before answering. "I was afraid," he replied simply.

Don winced, but didn't let the hurt show on his face. "Why were you afraid of me?" he asked.

Charlie shook his head. "I wasn't afraid _of_ you, Don. I was afraid _for_ you. I didn't understand, and Megan was the only one I could think of who could help." Seeing the pain that his actions had caused, Charlie wanted to apologize, but couldn't. He had done the right thing, going to Megan. Even if it hurt Don a little more in the short term, hopefully it would help in the long run.

"You should've come to me," Don weakly asserted. Charlie said nothing.

Another minute of silence passed awkwardly before either man continued.

"Megan told me about the deal she made with you."

Don's eyes flashed with momentary anger, stopping Charlie from continuing with the line of conversation.

"Blackmail more like it," Don uttered.

"She said you agreed to it," Charlie said hesitantly, almost as if he was asking a question.

"I couldn't do anything but agree to it," Don spat out. "That was the only way I could avoid getting fired. So don't expect me to be happy about the arrangement."

Charlie was a bit confused. Maybe he'd missed some of the details when Megan was explaining it to him. He really hadn't understood that Don's job was on the line if he refused the deal. "So at least you get to keep your job," Charlie tried to encourage the agent.

"We don't know that for sure. Not yet. If they can me, you can forget about the deal."

Charlie's eyes widened. He desperately hoped that the Assistant Director would let Don keep working for the FBI. If they did fire him, Don would not only avoid getting help, but would probably end up cutting a lot more severely. Charlie knew that Don's job was probably the biggest cause for Don's destructive behavior, but he also knew that without the job, Don would feel lost.

"Megan said she would fight for you," Charlie supplied. It sounded pathetic, but it was the best he could do. Even though he was a regular consultant for the FBI, he had very little sway in a matter like this.

Changing subjects again, Charlie asked, "So, Megan said you might be taking a week or two of vacation time?"

Don shook his head. "I'm not planning on it. Merrick will probably restrict me from field duty, but that doesn't mean I can't still help in the office. I want to be helping my team get sick bastards off of the streets, even if I can't do it myself." Charlie knew how much Don hated desk work, but also understood his brother's zeal for his job.

"You know you can spend some time at the house with Dad and me," he offered.

"Thanks, Buddy. I'll think about it." Something in Don's voice and demeanor had shifted, ever so slightly. Charlie could finally see some resemblance to the brother he knew.

"If you want help with anything, let me know. Really." When Don didn't respond immediately, Charlie continued. "You think you're going to be okay?"

"I'm fine, Buddy. I'll let you know if you can help."

"We're always here for you, Don. Me and Dad." Don nodded in acknowledgement.

"Hungry?" the agent asked his brother. Suddenly, Don was starving.

Charlie smiled and nodded. Don started to stand when he remembered something. Glancing all around the couch and floor, he couldn't find it. After a few seconds of thought, Don had a vague memory of what had happened.

"Megan!" he called out, knowing that she was somewhere nearby. "You have my knife. I want it back. Now!"

Megan walked back into the living room, knife in hand, but obviously reluctant to give it up. "I don't know if that's such a good idea, Don."

"Agent Reeves," Don growled. "Give me my knife."

For the first time all day, Megan smiled. Don's voice carried authority without the despair she had heard earlier in the afternoon. Bringing Charlie had helped. Hope began to rise within her. Her boss was on the mend.

* * *

**A/N: Not actually trying to say Charlie is scrawny or whatever, just severely limited physical strength and combat training relative to Don.**


	13. Supervisor

Monday morning rolled around faster than Don had expected. He had tried not to think much about it, but the possibility of losing his job was too much to ignore. Don was the first from his team to arrive at the office. He took a couple minutes to look around the bullpen, knowing that it might be his last day working there. His mood was somber when Megan arrived.

Approaching his desk, Megan held out a couple sheets of paper for Don's review. "My meeting with Merrick is at 9 o'clock. Here's a copy of the written report I'm going to give to him. I thought you would want to know what I've told him before he calls you in."

Don took the report and skimmed through it. Just as she had promised, it outlined the basic details of his "problem," and that, when confronted, he had voluntarily agreed to seek counseling and would submit himself to weekly medical exams. The final paragraph of the report was her recommendation for him to maintain SSA status, as well as his team leader position.

When he had finished reading the report, he handed it back to her with a nod. "Thanks for the heads up," he added, although he was only partially grateful.

David arrived then, looking fully refreshed from a full weekend without getting called in. "Hey guys! Good weekend?" His smile faded at the looks he received from the other two agents. "I had a great weekend, thanks for asking," he stated, although not quite as cheerfully. He sat down at his desk, his mood dampened.

The morning crept by. Colby rolled into the office just a few minutes after David, also in a good mood. David intersected him close to the door, giving ample warning to tread lightly around Don and Megan. The two agents speculated on what was going on with the team leader and profiler, but couldn't arrive at any conclusion.

Nine o'clock finally rolled around, and to David and Colby's surprise, Assistant Director Merrick appeared in the bullpen(1). Megan led him to the conference room and shut the blinds. Colby arched an eyebrow at David, who responded with a shrug.

Don hadn't gotten any real work done since he had arrived. While Megan was meeting with Merrick in the conference room, the team leader checked his watch nearly every sixty seconds. Time seemed to have slowed down at 9:00. Twenty-six torturous minutes had passed when Megan returned to her desk. She met Don's eyes for a moment, trying to give him some last-minute encouragement. The moment lasted only a split second. Don's eyes flicked to the door of the conference room where Merrick had just appeared.

"Agent Eppes! In here! Now!" the Assistant Director's voice rang out over all other noise in the bullpen.

Adjusting his suit jacket, which conveniently hid all evidence of his recent cutting sessions, Don strode toward the conference room. Megan had to give him some credit; his posture and stride exuded much more confidence than he could possibly feel.

Colby made eye contact with Megan when the door shut between them and Don. Megan shook her head slightly, indicating that now was not the time for questions. Colby sighed and returned to his work.

* * *

"Agent Eppes," Merrick began formally. "I have received a rather disturbing report from one of your colleagues concerning your ability to do your job." Don was amused that Merrick was trying to protect Megan. 

"Sir," Don interrupted respectfully. "I know Megan submitted the report, so you don't need to worry about maintaining her anonymity. You also don't need to worry about me seeking retribution or attempting to punish her for her actions. I understand that she was doing her job." Don was impressed with himself; everything that had come out of his mouth so far was even, calm, and controlled. Nothing he had done so far had betrayed the sheer terror that was coursing through his body. Steeling himself for what was to come, Don waited for his supervisor to continue.

Merrick seemed momentarily taken aback at Don's statement, but quickly recovered his composure. "Right. Well. Yes, as I was saying. I have spoken at length with Agent Reeves, and I believe I have her side of the story, as well as her recommendations. Let me give you a brief summary of her claims, and you let me know if you disagree or would like to clarify any points." Merrick proceeded to recount most of the information from Megan's report, excluding her recommendations. When he was finished, he indicated that this would be an acceptable time for Don to speak up on his own behalf.

"Sir, I don't disagree with anything that Agent Reeves reported. I would like to add, however, that until she confronted me, my behavior – destructive or not – had no bearing on my ability to perform my job. I was able to lead my team and effectively solve cases without incident. The only reason anyone in this office knows about my… coping mechanism… is that my brother saw the scars. I just want the record to reflect that my actions have not affected my work or my team up to this point."

Merrick nodded and jotted down a few notes on a tablet of paper. "Duly noted, Agent Eppes." Skimming back through Megan's report, Merrick continued. "Agent Reeves has indicated that you have voluntarily complied with her recommendations to regularly see a psychiatrist and undergo periodic medical examinations." Merrick paused, obviously awaiting confirmation. Don nodded once. Merrick continued. "She has recommended that we retain you as an FBI agent and team leader." He paused again. Don swallowed nervously, unsure of what was about to come.

"For the most part, I agree with Agent Reeves' assessment and recommendations. However, I am not convinced that you are still fit to serve in your leadership position. I discussed this at length with Agent Reeves, who insisted that, with help, you are still suited for the job." Don silently thanked Megan, this time with more sincerity. "For now, I am withholding judgment on your role as team leader. I see no reason to summarily dismiss you from FBI service, but I have strong reservations about keeping you in leadership until you have dealt with your… problem. After you have a few sessions with the psychiatrist, I will reevaluate and make my decision."

Don let out a breath that he didn't realize he'd been holding. It definitely wasn't the worst case scenario, although it could be better.

"Despite Agent Reeves' claim that you have given your word to comply with her recommendations, I have some requirements that you must meet to prove that you are capable of holding your leadership position. First, I am mandating that you visit the department psychiatrist at least twice every week. Second, you will undergo medical exams every week for the next eight; beyond that is up to the discretion of the psychiatrist. Third, you will be restricted from field duty until I have a written statement from the psychiatrist that you are ready to return to full duty. Finally, should you decide to harm yourself again, you will not remain team leader, and you will severely jeopardize your status as a Bureau Agent. Do you understand all of the expectations I have listed?"

Don nodded. "And you agree to comply?" Don nodded again. "I will be sending you a memorandum to that effect. When you receive it, sign and date it, and send a copy back to my office."

"I understand, sir," Don replied, hoping that the meeting was over and no other restrictions would be placed on him.

"One last thing, Eppes." Don silently groaned. "You are officially on vacation until your first visit with the shrink. After you see him the first time, you can return to the office, but will still be restricted from field duty. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Don responded.

"Then you are dismissed."

Don strode out of the conference room, eyes locked on his desk, jaw clenched. Forced vacation. At least it was only until his first visit with the department shrink. If he could manage it, that appointment would happen within twenty-four hours, and he'd be back at his desk within twenty-five.

Cramming some papers into his briefcase, Don hardly noticed Megan standing beside his desk. "How'd it go?" she asked tentatively.

"Still an agent; jury's out on team leader; shrink twice a week; no field duty until the shrink says so; vacation time for now." He spit out all of Merrick's decisions in one breath, trusting that Megan would be able to sort it out.

With faster keystrokes than he had ever managed, Don pulled up the LA FBI office directory, found the number for the psychiatrist, punched it into his phone, and shut down his computer.

"See you soon, I hope," he muttered to Megan as he strode toward the exit, cell phone at his ear. After two rings, a secretary picked up. "Hi, this is Agent Don Eppes. I need to schedule the soonest appointment you have."

* * *

As soon as Don and Merrick had left the office, Colby jumped out of his chair, motioning for David to follow. The two agents approached Megan's desk, where she was dutifully typing at her computer. 

"What's going on with you and Don?" Colby demanded. "And why was Merrick here?"

Megan hesitated before slowly turning to face her teammates. She didn't want to undermine Don's authority, nor deny him the opportunity to explain the situation, but she knew that David and Colby had a right and need to know. Finally deciding, Megan spoke. "Charlie discovered that Don has been cutting himself to deal with tough cases. Charlie talked to me about it, and then I confronted Don, which is what you saw the tail end of last week. After we finished the kidnapping case on Friday, I told Don that I had to report his behavior to Merrick, and I recommended some ways for him to get help. He has agreed to take my recommendation, but I still had to give the report to Merrick. Which is what just happened."

Colby was shocked, David concerned. Although they hadn't really known what to expect, this definitely wasn't it. "So, is Don… umm… what did Merrick do?" David asked awkwardly.

"Don is still an Agent, although he is restricted to desk duty until further notice. For now, he is still our team leader. He'll have to regularly see a psychiatrist, and until that happens, he's on vacation." Megan intentionally refrained from saying that Merrick wasn't confident that Don should still lead. If Merrick made the decision to demote Don, the team would deal with it then. Until that point in time, Colby and David needed to continue to accept Don's leadership and authority without second-guessing him.

Colby's expression at the news that Don would have to be visiting the department shrink was priceless. Megan nearly laughed at the sight, but managed to hold it in. Colby had had a relatively recent experience with having to go before a psych review. The youngest agent obviously empathized with Don on that point.

"Not a word to Don or anyone else about any of this. Don will bring it up when he's ready. If and when he does talk about it, try to give him some support. He will already be under enough pressure from everyone else, so we don't need to make it worse. Understood?"

David and Colby nodded in agreement. The mood was somber as they filed back to their respective desks. Megan hoped desperately that Don would be back in full swing very quickly. She knew that the process was bound to be long and frustrating for him, but hopefully he would be able to make strides toward recovery that would prepare him to return to field duty soon. As much as he didn't want to take vacation time, Megan knew he wouldn't be happy working at his desk for long.

* * *

**A/N: (1) – I am assuming that Merrick's office is not on the same floor as Don's team, since we haven't actually seen him much in the show. If my assumption is invalid, just pretend that all the meetings happened in Merrick's office, not the conference room.**


	14. Shrink

"Damn!" Don swore loudly, slamming his fist onto his desk. "I hate shrinks!" Everyone in the office turned to look at him wide-eyed. Megan was at his desk within seconds, but not before she had given a sweeping glance around the office, silently warning people to mind their own business.

"Welcome back, Don," she greeted him tentatively, stepping back at the heated glare he gave her. "You want to talk about it?"

"I've had too much damn talking for one day," he spat back at her. Megan gathered that his first appointment with the department psychiatrist hadn't gone well.

Sighing, Megan pulled up a chair. "Was it really that bad?"

"Took him two days to 'work me into his schedule', and then he tells me that I should 'really consider' taking another few days of vacation," Don grumbled, staring at his blank computer screen. Megan was still there, obviously waiting for more, so he continued. "I told him 'Hell, no.' My place is here with my team, even if I am chained to my desk."

"That's all that went poorly?" she probed.

Don looked back at the profiler. Rolling his eyes, he spoke again. "Do you think I'd really be this mad if that's all that happened?" The corners of Megan's lips twitched into a tiny smile. This fired-up Don was much better than the despondent Don she'd been seeing so much of in the last few days.

"So what did he do to make you angry?"

"He wants to figure out _why_ I cut, and what in my past led me to start cutting, and what events in my childhood made me _feel_ this way. What a load of crap! He wants me to dredge up all the pain from my past so I can 'sit with it' and then 'let go of it.' As if I didn't have enough junk to deal with now." Don's loathing for shrinks had increased tenfold in the span of an hour talking with this guy, and he wasn't bothering to hide his disgust anymore.

"Honestly, all I need from this guy is to figure out how to cope with my pain without hurting myself so I can keep my job. I don't want him to help me work through any unresolved issues from my childhood. If I need to do that, I'll do it on my own. I just lack the skill set to deal with the pain in a _healthy_ manner, according to the rest of you." Don dug through his briefcase for his chewing gum. After the last incident, he had purchased a dozen of the jumbo packs, scattering them throughout his car, apartment and office. Surely that would keep him stocked for a while. Finally locating a slice of gum, he started chewing it with a vengeance.

"Did you tell all of that to the psychiatrist?" Megan noticed the ferocity with which Don was chewing gum. She wondered if it meant that he was fighting the urge to cut, or if he was just agitated from the therapy session.

"I tried. Before I could finish telling him how useless his idea of therapy was, he had cut me off. I didn't get the chance to tell him what I expected to gain from the sessions. He told me that I needed to cooperate, or he would have to recommend that I be removed from my position. Not to mention the fact that he has the ultimate say about when I get to return to the field. Which he made sure to state at least four times before I left." Don continued chomping on his gum, trying to let off some steam.

Megan had a hard time not laughing at Don's response. She understood that he wanted to just be done with the psychiatrist, but he would never be released from therapy if he kept up his current approach. She also couldn't fault the doctor for not being particularly receptive to Don's suggestions after being told that he was incompetent and useless. "Don, you have to keep in mind that therapy is going to take a while. You aren't just going to go for a week or two and then be magically better. It is a process. And if you aren't satisfied with the route he's taking, telling him that he's stupid is not going to help your case. Let him know what you expect to gain from the counseling sessions, and he should be better able to help you get there."

Don didn't respond for a minute, so Megan changed the subject.

"I have one other thing to tell you. I told Colby and David the basics of what is going on with you right now."

Don exploded. "You did what! What the hell were you thinking? Sharing personal, confidential information with other agents? Who the hell do you think you are!"

Having expected a similar reaction, Megan didn't flinch. He really did have a right to be angry with her, but at the time, it seemed like she was doing the right thing.

"Don, you have every right to be mad at me, but hear me out. David and Colby have been out of the loop for almost a week now. They knew something was going on, but they had no idea what it was. When you were put on vacation, I didn't know how long it was going to be before you were allowed to return. We _are_ a team, Don, and they needed to know why you were gone, and why you won't be in the field with us for a while. I thought that giving them the truth would be better than forcing them to rely on rumor and speculation. I didn't give them a lot of details, so that's up to you to decide if or when to tell them. I'm sorry if I offended you by telling them."

Scowling at his still-blank computer screen, Don muttered, "It was mine to tell. Not yours."

"I understand that, Don, and that's why I haven't talked to your father. I just want you to know that we're here for you. All three of us. If you ever need anything. Ever." Megan stood and walked back to her own desk. The ball was in Don's court now. It was completely up to him to decide if he wanted to talk to any of them right now.

Don continued to stew as he booted his computer. So all the members of his team knew. He wondered whether he would ever actually have the same authority over them as he used to, or if they would question everything he said or did, second-guessing every order he gave. Would they think he was going off the deep end? He couldn't help but wonder if maybe he really was going crazy, and Megan was trying to warn everyone around him. But she hadn't told his father. Despite what she had promised last Friday, she hadn't held him to the ultimatum of Monday afternoon.

Monday had just been too stressful for him to talk to Alan. Tuesday hadn't been much better, although he was more frustrated than stressed. He had decided on Tuesday morning that Merrick must have conspired with the shrink not to let him come for his first appointment until late Wednesday morning. So far, it felt like he would never return to the field, at least if the psychiatrist had his way. Maybe he would try Megan's suggestion for talking to the shrink. Don would prefer that it didn't come down to a battle of wills between him and the psychiatrist. He was pretty sure that his stubborn Eppes genetics would win over the shrink's, but ultimately the shrink could deny him from ever fully returning to his job. No matter what it took, even stupid, pointless reminiscing, Don _would_ get back to the field. He just hoped it would be sooner, rather than later.


	15. Therapy

**A/N: Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I neither own nor profit off of Numb3rs, its characters or this fanfiction. I actually have to work for a living. _Sigh_. **

**Thanks again to everyone who has reviewed! Your comments are very helpful! No offense intended if any of my readers are actually psychiatrists, but for the most part, I can't stand shrinks. Don's reactions to his therapy were very easy for me to write. ;)**

* * *

Sitting around in the conference room, Don's team discussed their newest case. A string of jewelry store robberies across the region had drawn the FBI's interest, and since the most recent robbery occurred in LA, Don's office had picked up the case. So far, it looked like nine robberies were connected. A team of three young, Caucasian males would conduct the actual robbery and one additional man would drive the get-away car. However, the FBI knew there were more than four people involved in the scheme, since the three burglars and the driver were not always the same. In each of the nine incidents, at least one of the known robbers was present. From enhanced surveillance video footage from each of the stores, the team had counted eight distinct men acting as robbers. Although there were always three out of the eight conducting the robbery, the same three men never worked together more than once. 

The level of violence in each heist varied depending on the temperaments of the three men in the group. Megan had managed to come up with basic profiles for all of the eight men from watching the video and listening to eyewitness accounts. Two of the eight were relatively docile, obviously content to follow orders and not think for themselves, but hesitant to actually commit any violent acts. Three were hot-heads, ready to start shooting on a whim. Two were fairly even-tempered, but didn't shy away from violence if the robbery started to go bad. The last man was probably the most dangerous. He appeared to be the most intelligent in the group, and probably the most natural leader. He was cold, calculating, and disseminated orders efficiently. He worked well under pressure, almost thriving on it. The most notable trait about him was that he never directly hurt anyone. He didn't even appear to be carrying a weapon. If he felt that his life was in jeopardy, he just gave a cold, quiet command, and one of the other two men would do the shooting.

So far, Don's team had positively identified two of the men – Megan had labeled both as hot-heads, and both had priors. None of the robbers bothered to wear masks, but it had taken weeks before law enforcement had been able to connect the robberies to each other since the three identities shifted for each theft. All of the eight men had worn gloves, so no fingerprints were found at any of the crime scenes. They were currently running the enhanced images from the surveillance tapes through face recognition software against all mug shots of men between the ages of twenty and thirty. That's how they'd already identified two of the men, and they were hoping to ID some of the others.

Don was, for the most part, content. This case hadn't required too much leg-work yet, so he really wasn't missing out on much, not being able to go to the field. The team was currently reviewing the surveillance tapes again, hoping to see something they might have missed the first half-dozen times they watched. Colby had started to propose an idea when the alarm on Don's watch went off. All three members of his team looked at him as he fumbled to make the beeping shut up. Colby had stopped talking, but Don motioned for him to continue.

Putting up a finger to tell Colby to wait, Megan looked back at Don. "Did that alarm mean something?"

Don tried to look innocent. "It's fine. Keep going, Colby. I was just getting interested."

"You're sure that alarm didn't go off to remind you about something?" she repeated. "Something like an appointment?"

Don glared at her. "The shrink can wait. We might be getting somewhere on this case," he stated matter-of-factly.

"_We_ might be getting somewhere on this case. _You_ need to go to your appointment. I promise, if we have any breakthroughs in the next hour, we won't leave until you get back." She sounded just like a scolding mother. Don rolled his eyes, pushed back his chair, and got up to leave the room.

"Don't wait on me if you get a lead. Just leave me a note or something," he instructed as he walked out. "I can't go anyway," he muttered under his breath.

* * *

"How are you today, Agent Eppes?" 

Don tried not to glare at the psychiatrist as he sat down. "Great, terrific, fantastic," he replied sarcastically. "Whatever you want to hear."

"Now, Don, I know you don't really want to be here, but since you have to keep coming, you might as well make the most use out of it. Right?"

Don stopped wasting effort on hiding his glare.

Dr. Gibson tried again. "So, how have you been doing?"

Pulling a piece of gum out of his pocket and sticking it in his mouth, Don eventually replied. "I'd be a lot better if I could go to the field with my team."

"I understand your desire to return to full duty, but I don't think you're ready yet. And as you know…"

Don cut him off. "I can't go back to field duty until you say I'm ready."

Dr. Gibson nodded. "Have you thought about anything we discussed last time?"

Here it goes again, Don thought. He checked his watch. Forty-eight more minutes in the fifty minute session. "Yes," he started. "And I wanted to talk to you about that." The shrink nodded, encouraging him to continue. "My partner thinks that I should let you know what I expect to get out of these sessions, and that my attempt to do so last time was begun in an… inappropriate manner. So I'll try to refrain from passing judgment on your methods. For now, at least."

Dr. Gibson nodded again. "Thank you. What _do_ you hope to gain from your sessions here?"

"All I really want is to develop some sort of coping strategy that will help me deal with pain. _I_ still don't think that cutting is wrong or bad… it worked, after all. However, I know that my friends, family, and boss think that I need some _other_ way to deal with my pain. I'm not really interested in delving into my past, especially not with you, to seek out 'unresolved pain.' Just help me learn to deal with my own pain, and I'll be on my merry way." Don didn't care that he was being blunt. He was trying not to be out-right rude, but he wasn't going to waste time if he could help it.

"Fair enough, Don. I think I can help you figure out some ways that are good for you to process through your pain. However, we are going to have to take a look at your past in order to do that. So bear with me."

Don scowled, but didn't verbally respond. He had to repeatedly remind himself not to get into a contest of wills with this man. Dr. Gibson was apparently waiting for some response. After a long pause, Don nodded.

"When did you first discover that cutting would take away your pain?"

Don had to think back. It was hard trying to remember exactly when he had cut for the first time. "It was a year or two after I finished training at Quantico. It was one of my first serial rape cases. I think it was the first time I was part of the raid when we found that we were too late for the next victim. She was dead before we found her. Raped, tortured, murdered. The guy killed two more women before we caught him. I think that I cut the first time after that case was over."

"Why did you think of cutting?"

Don shrugged. "I don't know, I just did. And it helped."

"What did you feel the first time you cut?"

Rolling his eyes, Don had to bite his tongue not to say something too sarcastic. "I don't really remember. All I can remember about it was that I tried a few other things to release the pain before I tried cutting. And that I felt better when I started to bleed."

"What other things did you try?"

"I went to the gym and ran on the indoor track for an hour. I tried hitting a punching bag, then punching a brick wall. None of that helped. I think that was when I decided to try cutting. I tried a few sharp objects before discovering the knife that worked best."

"When you cut, do you do it for the pain or for the blood?"

Don had never thought this hard about what specific aspect of cutting was helpful. Charlie was the one who constantly analyzed everything. Don was better at looking at a problem and following his instincts. "Umm… both, I guess." The shrink was writing on a notepad of paper the whole time Don spoke. The agent tried to ignore it.

"I have to feel a certain amount of pain before I let myself bleed. Then there has to be enough blood to actually get rid of the pain inside."

"Interesting. Can you see the similarity between your coping mechanism and what we discussed last time? You have to be able to sit with your pain, actually feel it, and then let it go. It sounds like with cutting, you do the same thing. You force yourself to externalize the internal pain so your body can feel it, and then the blood gives you release."

Don hated being psychoanalyzed. He hated it when Megan did it to him, and he hated it even more with this doctor.

Seeing that Don wasn't going to respond, the psychiatrist asked his next question. "How often did you cut at the beginning?"

"Once every few months. Only when a case went really bad or we had a string of cases go wrong."

The doctor nodded and wrote something in his notes. "When did you start cutting more regularly?"

Don clenched his jaw. He didn't want to go there. That pain had been buried for a long time, and he wasn't interested in bringing it back to the surface. The doctor watched him steadily, Don staring back with just as much determination. Finally, Don reminded himself that out-willing his opponent wouldn't help him in this situation. "A little over four years ago. I came back to LA because my mother was sick with cancer. We knew she was dying. I started cutting within a month of coming back from Albuquerque, and continued at least a couple times a month for the next few years."

"Were there specific events that led you to cut that frequently?"

"After pretty much every case that went bad."

"Why was that?"

Don's patience was wearing thin. "You already know that answer," he accused.

Dr. Gibson smiled a little. "That's not important. What is important is that you figure out the answers yourself."

"So why do I have to talk to you?" Don was being really blunt again.

The shrink really did smile this time. "I'm here to help you find the answers, and to help you cope with what you learn." Don crossed his arms over his chest, but didn't offer any more protests. "So, why did you feel like you had to cut after every bad case?"

Don checked his watch again. Fifteen more minutes in the session. There was no way he could get out of answering the question.

"My mother was dying. Anything else was too much to deal with."

"How did the cutting help?"

Still incredibly frustrated, Don didn't want to keep talking. He was already drained, and he still had a case to work. He frowned, but resolved to finish the session.

"I couldn't control anything else in my life. Cutting lets me control how much pain and I don't have to deal with it until I am ready."

Dr. Gibson nodded. "Good. That's important for you to recognize. I know this is hard for you. This is hard for anyone who goes through therapy, especially for agents. You've been taught to compartmentalize your life… that's what lets you do the job. But sometimes you have to stop and deal with it all. What you're doing here will help."

* * *

The therapy session was finally over. Don couldn't help but think that it had made him feel worse, not better. Exhausted, he returned to the bullpen. Megan had left a note on his desk: 

"Got a lead, should be back in a couple hours. Sorry. Hope your counseling went well – Megan"

Looking at his watch, Don decided to call it quits for now. Maybe if he went back to his apartment to sleep, he'd be able to work productively when his team got back.

Flipping over Megan's note, he wrote a return note: "Gone home. Call me when you get back. – Don." He passed Megan's desk on the way out, placing the note where she couldn't miss it.

The drive to his apartment was uneventful. He passed out on the couch, cell phone propped up by his ear.


	16. Restricted

Don woke up at 6 pm. He'd been asleep for almost two hours, and Megan hadn't called yet. Stretching as he got off the couch, Don rubbed the sleep from his eyes. During the whole drive back to the office, Don wondered whether his team was still in the field, or if they'd intentionally failed to contact him when they returned.

When he pulled into the parking lot, Megan was just stepping out of her SUV. Seeing her boss pull in, she waited for him before entering the FBI building. When he was in earshot, she called out, "Hey Don!"

Don quickly caught up to her as she held the door open. "How'd everything go out there?" he asked.

"Alright. The tip we received didn't pan out, but we did manage to get identities for three more of the eight. Only three left." Her face and voice indicated fatigue, but Don knew that Megan had pushed herself far past the point of fatigue on many cases. Still, it didn't hurt to show concern.

"You holding up okay?" He knew it couldn't be easy for the rest of his team, having to pick up the slack while he was restricted from the field.

Megan nodded. "How was…" she started, but trailed off at the look he gave her.

"Don't ask."

"That good, eh?"

Don smiled briefly. "Is it normal that I'd feel worse _after_ the therapy session than before?"

Megan paused mid-stride, shooting Don a concerned look. "Are you doing okay?" she asked. Don nodded. They'd reached the bullpen by now. Lowering her voice, Megan asked worriedly, "You didn't cut, did you?"

Shooting her a scornful look, Don answered, "Of course not. Even if I wanted to, do you think I'd risk my job for it?"

Megan sighed, but replied, "No, I guess not."

"At least not while everyone's watching me so closely," he added under his breath. Megan just shook her head and laughed.

In an instant, she had returned to being serious. "Do you want to?"

Don chose not to answer. More likely than not, his silence would give Megan all the answers she needed, but this wasn't a discussion topic he wanted to pursue at the moment. The FBI could regulate his actions, but they couldn't control his thoughts and desires.

Seeing that Don wasn't going to respond, Megan reminded herself again to keep a close eye on him. Just because he was getting help didn't mean he was better.

David and Colby were waiting in the conference room for the rest of the team to join them. Five of the eight photos on the board had names written underneath. Rap sheets for all five were arranged on the table in what were probably neat piles at one point in time.

Don entered the conference room and scanned all of the new information. Upon crossing the threshold into the room, he had put on the face of team leader, letting everything else fade away for the time being. "So, which three profiles have we not positively identified yet?" he asked.

David glanced at the board and pointed to each of the three men in turn. "The one we think is the leader, one of the nonviolent ones, and one of the even-tempered guys. If any of them have priors, we haven't been able to match their faces yet." Don nodded, his eyes intense as he focused on assimilating all the new pieces to the puzzle.

Seconds passed and Don began to issue orders. "Megan, you keep looking at those surveillance tapes. See if any of them have a view of the car they use. David, check with our computer guys, see if they've gotten any hits on those faces yet. Colby, you and I are going to keep sorting through phone tips. Maybe we'll catch a break."

* * *

Another hour of work had given them no results. Don was about to call it a night and tell his team to hit the sack for a few hours when Megan's cell phone chirped. Three sets of eyes watched her face as she took the call. 

Flipping the phone shut, Megan looked at David and Colby. "Robbery in progress. It's our guys. Let's go!" Turning to Don, she tried to look apologetic, but he gave her a look of frustration in return.

"Go! Catch the bastards!" he ordered, not giving her a chance to say anything. "I'll be fine," he called out after her as his team ran out the door. Sitting down, Don flipped on a radio so he could monitor his team. It felt strange to be sitting on the outside, unable to do anything to help the situation. For the hundredth time in the last week, he felt naked without his firearm holstered to his belt. Restriction from field duty, especially if related to anything resembling a psych review, really meant no raids, no interrogations, no weapon, no cuffs. In essence, no agent.

* * *

Don woke up to a tapping on his shoulder. In one motion, the agent whipped around in his chair and reached for his weapon. His hand found nothing but air and his belt, his eyes fixed on Colby. "Whoa, man. Sorry to wake you up." Colby had stepped back with his hands held out as if surrendering. 

"What time is it?" Don snapped, simultaneously checking his own watch.

"Nine thirty," Colby replied quickly.

Damn! Don chastised himself silently for not even managing to stay awake to listen to his team on the radios.

"Well?" he demanded. Colby glanced around for Megan or David before answering. Don glared ominously until Colby started talking.

"They were gone before we got there. Two people were shot. A young-ish lady, probably about twenty-five or thirty, took one to the head after hitting the silent alarm. An older guy, the store owner, got hit in the chest after drawing a gun out from underneath one of the counters and firing it at one of the robbers. The EMTs said he's in critical condition, but might be able to live. As for good news, the store owner's bullet managed to hit one of the robbers in the arm, and he dropped his weapon."

Don motioned for the younger agent to continue. "We're enhancing video footage right now so we can figure out which three men were involved this time. We're also running ballistics on the bullets recovered from the victims' bodies, and forensics on the weapon that the perp dropped." The team leader nodded, satisfied with the results of their excursion. Colby returned to his own desk.

Shaking his head, Don continued to silently upbraid himself for falling asleep. He'd just gotten up from a nap a couple hours ago; he should not be this tired! Megan walked by his desk, pausing to look him over. "You look horrible, Don. You should go home, get some rest."

Slowly, Don turned his head until their eyes met. Blinking heavily, he nodded. "You all need to go home, too. It's been a long day for all of us, and I don't think we can do much else until we get the ballistics and forensics reports." Megan agreed with his decision and left to inform David and Colby.

* * *

The team reconvened in the morning, despite the fact that it was Saturday. David, Colby, and Megan all looked rejuvenated. Don, on the other hand, didn't look like he'd slept at all. Megan pushed aside her worry for the moment, focusing on the reports and enhanced video that had come back in. 

David looked through the ballistics while Colby reviewed the forensics from the recovered weapon. Don and Megan watched the surveillance footage in a loop. They had determined that two of the hotheads and the unidentified nonviolent guy made up the newest grouping, and that it was the nonviolent one who had been shot. The guy had raised his weapon, pointing it at the store owner, but had dropped it when the owner shot him in the arm. One of the hotheaded men had shot both the woman and the owner.

"Good news," Colby announced. "Prints on the pistol grip. We've got a name!"

Megan rushed to the board and Don whipped around to face Colby. "It's one of our unidentified perps," he explained to the younger agent. Colby read off the name as Megan wrote on the board under the guy's picture.

"Six down, two to go," she announced.

The elation of having three-fourths of the perpetrators identified quickly faded when they found no other information to tell them where these guys were. The team spent hours tracking down leads and sorting through tips to no avail. At 4 pm, they were all frustrated at the lack of new progress. In the end, it was Megan who suggested that they all go home for the day. Before they left, she mentioned to Don, "Go to your house. Charlie says they haven't seen you all week, and your dad is getting worried about you. Anyway, maybe you can see if Charlie could help us on this case. We really need some sort of breakthrough. Maybe he can predict where they'll next strike."

Don nodded wearily. His team had exhausted all traditional methods of apprehending their suspects. Maybe Charlie would be able to help. "And Don," Megan added. "Talk to your father. He really needs to know."

Without answering, Don left the FBI office building. His SUV was practically on autopilot as he drove, arriving at his brother's house without even realizing where he was going. Maybe this was the right time to talk to his dad. But not before he slept.

* * *

**A/N: I'm not quite as good at writing the cases, but I thought that while Don's at work, he probably should be doing FBI kinds of things. :) I'll get back to the more angsty stuff next chapter, I promise.**


	17. Father

**A/N: Thanks for all the reviews! They have been very encouraging!**

* * *

Alan greeted his firstborn son warmly as he walked through the door. He knew Don didn't appreciate being fussed over or worried about, but Alan couldn't help it. His oldest son had chosen a very dangerous profession. It was his right and duty to worry. "Donnie! It's been so long! Come on in."

Don tried to smile at his father, but all he really wanted to do was pass out. "Hey Dad, I've been pretty busy. Would you mind if I crashed here for a couple hours?"

"Too busy to come see your old man? And of course you can sleep here for a while. Stay here all night if you want!" Alan wanted to talk and catch up with his son, but could tell that Don was about to fall asleep where he was standing. Maybe after the agent got some rest and good food, he would be interested in talking more.

Don grunted his thanks and thudded his way to the room his family kept ready for him. He fell onto the bed and fell asleep, fully clothed. He hadn't even wasted the energy to pull off his shoes.

Despite his exhaustion, Don slept fitfully for an hour. He actually felt more tired when he woke up than when he had left the office. With a sigh, Don stood up, surprised to find that he was still wearing his shoes. He didn't remember much of anything that had happened after leaving work, a clear indicator that he needed more sleep. Yet, he had other things to take care of at the moment. Like eating.

Alan was anchored in front of the stove when Don stumbled down the stairs and into the kitchen. Looking over his father's shoulder, Don discovered that spaghetti was on the menu for the night. "Smells good, Dad," he said as his stomach growled in anticipation.

"I have to make sure that you at least get a good meal when you come home," Alan replied. Don still looked wiped out, and his father worried that he wasn't taking care of himself properly. Oh well, he thought, hopefully it is just the case he's working on.

Don smiled. "I thought you knew… the food's the actual reason I come." Alan hoped that Don's typical bantering was a sign that everything was alright.

Sighing in pleasure as he inhaled the smell of the spaghetti sauce, Don located a beer in the fridge. He might need its effects later, when he talked to his father. Don excused himself from the kitchen to take his normal post in the living room in front of the TV. He flipped through the channels until he found a baseball game, slowly drinking from his bottle.

Thankfully, the food was ready very soon, and Don turned off the television. Alan was busy setting the table while Don was supposed to be locating his brother. Predictable as ever, Charlie was in the garage, oblivious to the world. Don tapped the younger man on the shoulder, waiting for Charlie to inevitably jump. When Charlie turned to face him, Don jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen. "Food. Let's eat."

"Don! I didn't know you were here! How are you doing?" Charlie's voice was strained, obviously worried but trying to sound care-free.

Don shrugged, not wanting to go off on some long explanation of his current mental and emotional health. "I'm starving," was his reply. "I want to eat, let's go!"

Charlie followed his older brother out of the garage and toward the table. While their father was still in the kitchen, Charlie turned to Don and whispered, "You need to tell him!" Don tried to shrug it off, but Charlie was persistent. "He needs to know."

Finally, Don relented. "Yes, Charlie, I'm planning to talk to him. Tonight," he added at a look from the professor. Charlie nodded, apparently satisfied, and sat down at the table. Don sat across from him, leaving Alan's chair open.

* * *

Dinner conversation was awkward. Charlie kept staring at Don, trying to get the agent to tell their father the truth. Don stubbornly continued to refuse, indicating that he was waiting until later. Charlie didn't seem to believe him. Alan watched the silent exchanges in confusion, but decided to worry about it later. If there was a problem, he was confident that his boys would tell him. Charlie and Alan watched in amazement as Don shoveled down two full plates of spaghetti and part of a third.

"Doesn't the FBI let you eat?" Alan asked.

Don's mouth was full, so he couldn't reply immediately. After swallowing the pasta, he smiled broadly at his father. "Nothing like a home-cooked meal."

"Maybe if I stopped cooking for you, you'd find a wife," Don's father teased.

"Nope," Don retorted. "I'd just get thinner and thinner and then I'd die from starvation. And then you'd feel guilty." He winked so Charlie could see, but not Alan.

Charlie refused to join in on the game. "Tell him, Don," he whispered. Don's joviality gave way to irritation.

Alan wasn't quite sure what had just happened, but he hadn't missed Charlie's comment. He looked to Don, who was now glaring at Charlie. "What's he talking about, Don?" What was his oldest son not telling him?

"Donnie?"

Don hadn't taken his eyes off his younger brother. His father's voice pierced through his anger. Taking a deep breath, Don finally spoke. "Fine, Charlie. I'll tell him. But you don't say a word. This is mine to tell."

Charlie nodded, albeit reluctantly.

At long last, Don turned to face his father. "Dad, I have something I have to tell you."

"So I've gathered." Alan eyes were wide, occasionally darting between his sons, but mainly focused on Don's face.

Even after having thought for a week about how to tell his father, Don had no idea how to start. Realizing that he didn't have the words to say, Don started to roll up his left sleeve. He kept rolling until his arm was bare from the elbow down. While baring his arm, he'd kept his arm so his palm was facing down. Slowly, Don flipped his hand over on the table, revealing the gash that he'd inflicted on himself the week before. The cut had scabbed over, but Don had a tendency to pick at scabs. At the moment, the skin around the cut was still an angry red.

Alan grabbed Don's wrist and pulled it toward him. "What happened!" he gasped.

Don hesitated before answering. He still didn't have the words. "I… I did it," he stammered. How could he be so confident and always have the right things to say when interrogating suspects or talking to witnesses, but sound so inept talking to his own family?

Alan didn't fully grasp the significance, at least not yet. "What do you mean?" he asked, wanting clarification.

"I did it," Don repeated with more confidence. "I… cut myself."

"Why?" Alan's brow furrowed as he tried to understand.

"It's just… too hard."

"I still don't understand."

"It helps me deal, alright?" Don was starting to get defensive.

"Was this the first time?" Alan asked. Don didn't answer, but his father could read his facial expressions. "How many times? How long have you been doing this?"

Don looked away. His eyes were watering, but he wouldn't cry. He couldn't. Pulling his arm away, he answered the question with a ragged whisper. "Since mom."

Alan's eyes filled with tears. His son had been hurting this badly for four years, and he hadn't even noticed? What kind of a father was he!

Charlie couldn't take any more without saying anything. "It's going to be alright. Don's getting help."

Alan looked between his sons again. "How long have you known, Charlie?"

"Just over a week."

Alan shook his head, still trying to comprehend what he had seen and heard. When he looked back at Don, the agent's head was down, eyes studying the table. "You're getting help, Don?"

Don nodded slowly without looking up.

"You want to quit cutting?"

Don paused, then shook his head. He pulled his head back up, but avoided eye contact with either member of his family. "If I had a choice, I wouldn't quit. But I have no choice," he whispered.

Alan couldn't understand why his son would want to keep cutting, but he really couldn't fully understand why his son would have wanted to cut in the first place. "You always have a choice," Alan admonished. He wanted Don to get the help he needed, but he didn't want his son to feel like he was forced into it.

Don shook his head again. "I had to stop cutting to keep my job. They're making me see a shrink. And I'm restricted to desk duty until further notice." His body language and voice reflected his despondency.

Alan didn't know what to say. As much as he worried about Don working for the FBI, he knew his son was good at it, and would be hard-pressed to find another job that would satisfy him. "Donnie, if you ever need anything, let me know. We're here for you, got it?"

Don laughed bitterly. "Yeah, I got it. Everyone's _here for me_. Unless I cut again. Then I'm all alone." He rose from his chair and tromped up the steps to his room. He pulled off his clothes so he was left in a t-shirt and boxers, then climbed under the covers. Exhaustion hit him like a train, but sleep wouldn't come.


	18. Roller coaster

Charlie and Alan looked at each other helplessly. After witnessing Don's bitter departure from the table, neither man was sure what to do or say. Alan wanted to chastise his younger son for not mentioning Don's self-mutilation earlier, but he knew that it had been Don's right to choose when and whom he would tell.

"I'm sorry, Dad. I should have told you sooner," Charlie eerily echoed his father's thoughts.

"It's alright, Charlie," Alan soothed. "Don was right; it was his to tell." Some pieces to the puzzle started to come together in his head. "So this is why you were upset last week?" Charlie nodded slowly. Another piece clicked. "And this is why Megan came here looking for you last weekend?" Charlie nodded again. "How did you find out?"

"I took breakfast to Don's on my way to CalSci. When he answered the door, he wasn't wearing a shirt, so I saw all the scars on his shoulders." When Alan's eyes grew worried at the casual mention of 'all the scars,' Charlie reassured him, "None of them were like the one he showed you on his arm. Mostly thin lines, each a couple inches long. I understand it more now, but at the time, I thought he was suicidal. Anyway, I didn't know what to do, so I went and talked to Megan. I'm still not sure it was the right thing to do, but I thought she would be able to help." Charlie continued to recount the events that had taken place since that surprise breakfast delivery. Alan was finally beginning to understand his oldest son's behavior, although he couldn't imagine ever cutting himself intentionally.

Charlie sat with his father for another few minutes, sometimes talking, but mostly sitting in silence. When it had been almost an hour since Don had gone upstairs, Alan stood up. He figured Don would be asleep by now and he wouldn't disturb him.

Quietly, Alan opened the door to Don's room. His eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness after he shut the door behind him. Despite the fact that his sons were now adults, he never got tired of watching his boys sleep. They usually looked peaceful and innocent while they slept, and Alan had always hoped that in Don's dreams, he would be able to forget about all the evil and horror in the world around him. Yet, he knew that it wasn't always true. Charlie usually looked very peaceful as he slept, but frequently Don's brow would be furrowed as if fighting unseen demons.

Before Alan's eyes had adjusted enough to see more than just an outline of his son, Don spoke up. "Dad?"

"Yes, Don?"

"I'm sorry, Dad," he whispered.

Alan didn't trust himself to speak for a moment, having suddenly choked up. After a couple seconds, he responded, "There's nothing to be sorry about. Donnie, no matter what, we're here for you. Even if you cut yourself again. I will _always_ love you unconditionally."

Don was facing away from where his father stood. Alan watched as his son's shoulders began to shake. The agent wasn't crying, but his body was overwrought with emotion. Alan put his hand on Don's shoulder and rubbed it softly. "It's going to be alright, Donnie," he whispered into his son's ear. The shaking finally stopped. Don was asleep. Alan gave Don's shoulder a light squeeze before he left the room.

* * *

Don woke up from the best six hours of sleep he'd had in a week. His mind and body were still tired; he knew that the body couldn't "catch up" on that much missed sleep, especially in one night. Yet, he was starting to feel a little better. The incredible urge to cut hadn't abated over the last week, but it wasn't much stronger now than a couple days ago. Maybe that was a sign that he was improving. 

Looking out his window, Don noticed that it was still very dark out. He checked his watch and found that it was 3 am. He stared, unseeing, at the ceiling for twenty minutes before deciding he was too alert to go back to sleep.

Don was thankful that last time he'd stayed overnight at the house, he'd left a t-shirt and some sweatpants in the laundry. His father, of course, had laundered them and put them in his room. Don put them on after showering, hoping that he wouldn't get called back in to work. If he did, he would just have to stop at his apartment on the way to change into more professional attire.

At 4 am, Don went downstairs to get some coffee and breakfast. While making pancakes, he heard a noise in the dining room. He turned down the stove and pushed open the door between the kitchen and dining room. Charlie was sitting there with three open notebooks spread out in front of him. He was scribbling furiously in the closest one, occasionally flipping through the pages of the other two, never even noticing Don's presence at the door.

Smiling, Don returned to the stove and added some more batter to the pan. After a few more minutes, Don had two full plates of pancakes. He returned to the dining room to find Charlie still working, oblivious to everything around him.

Don pulled two of the notebooks away from his younger brother and slid the plate of pancakes toward him. Charlie looked up, obviously startled. "Good morning, Charlie," Don greeted the younger man.

Charlie smiled at his brother. "Thanks, Don." He'd never told his brother that he didn't really like pancakes, and this probably wasn't the best time to do it. Don returned to the kitchen to get the syrup and butter. While he was gone, Charlie wondered whether this meant that Don was feeling better, or maybe he was feeling worse and was just trying to distract himself from the pain.

Don looked alright when he returned from the kitchen, but Charlie couldn't be sure. Don had always done a pretty good job of hiding what he felt, evidenced by the fact that he'd hidden his cutting tendencies for four years.

"What are you doing up this early, Buddy?"

Charlie glanced at his watch, apparently completely unaware of the time. "I woke up with some new ideas for my Cognitive Emergence work, and I wanted to write them down before I forgot. I didn't even really notice the time."

Don shook his head and laughed.

"I could ask you the same, you know."

Still smiling, Don replied, "Nothing quite as profound as you… I just woke up and couldn't go back to sleep." After saturating his pancakes with syrup, Don sat down and started eating. Conversation between the brothers continued on a positive note while they ate. When Charlie had only a few bites left on his plate, Don switched topics. He knew his brother well enough to understand that as soon as Charlie finished the meal, his mind would be back on his work, the rest of the world on the back burner.

"So, Charlie," he started. Charlie made eye contact, understanding the transition to more serious topics. "My team has been working on this case, a string of robberies. The group doing it has at least eight members, each robbery uses three of them, but never the same three. We've identified a lot of them, but we've still not been able to catch them. We were hoping you could predict where they're going to strike next, or something. You up for it?"

Charlie hesitated before answering. "I've got to finish this line of thought on my Cognitive Emergence work, but I could probably take a look at your case later this morning. Is that good enough?"

Don smiled and nodded. "That's great, Buddy. I've got copies of all the case files in my car. I'll put them in the garage for you, just get to them when you can. But sooner is better than later."

Charlie nodded, but Don could tell that by the time he'd finished speaking, Charlie was in his own world again. As Don cleared the table, Charlie pulled the notebooks toward himself again and was back to scribbling equations.

* * *

By the time 8 am rolled around, Don was already bored. His good mood had already started to fade, and the longing to cut was back in full force. He had let his guard down a little when he was feeling better, and was unprepared for when the emotional rollercoaster headed back downhill. Charlie was working on his numbers, so Don had been left in solitude for three hours. Three hours alone with nothing to do. 

Alan came downstairs after waking and showering. He was surprised to find that both of his sons were awake and dressed already, especially since it was a Sunday. The most surprising thing he found, though, was his oldest son in the living room, staring at a blank TV, beer bottle in hand.

"Don!" he exclaimed. "It isn't even mid-morning, and you're already having a beer? Have you even had breakfast?"

Don's head turned slowly toward his father, as if he were tearing his eyes away from something fascinating on the television. He hadn't even really noticed that the TV was off, it was just the general direction of space that he was staring into. "Had pancakes at four o' clock," he stated simply.

"Didn't you sleep?" Alan asked.

"Slept great, but I woke up at 3 and couldn't go back to sleep." Don's head went back to looking straight forward.

Not knowing what else to say, Alan went to the garage to find Charlie flipping through official-looking case files. "Good morning, Charlie."

Charlie looked up from the file he was reading and smiled. "Hey, Dad! Isn't Don doing great this morning!"

Alan frowned. Something must have happened between the last time Charlie spoke to Don and now. No one could possibly think that sorrowfully drinking a beer at 8 am was 'great.' "You had pancakes with Don earlier?" Charlie nodded, but his head was back down, continuing to read the case file.

Giving up, Alan left the garage and returned to the living room. "Donnie, come talk to me while I fix some breakfast." Don stood up and followed his father to the kitchen, downing the rest of his beer on the way.

"What's going on, Don?" Alan asked seriously.

Don shrugged. After receiving a look that only a father can give, Don spoke. "I don't really know what happened. I was feeling really good there for a little while this morning. Probably the best I've felt all week. But now it's gone, and I don't know why."

When Don headed to the fridge to find another beer, his father stepped in the way. "No more beer this morning, Donnie," he ordered. Don stepped back and leaned against the counter as his father continued to fix his breakfast.

"I know this is going to be tough for you. I want you to quit, but if you can't do it right now, I'd understand." Alan hated giving his son an excuse to keep cutting, but he would try to be supportive, no matter what Don chose.

Don shook his head. "It doesn't matter if I _can_ do it right now. I _have_ to do it now. If I blow it, even once, I'll probably lose my job." His own standards of perfection, the pressure to not fail, were intense on normal days. But now that perfection was demanded by an outside source, the pressure was crushing him.

"Like I said yesterday, you always have a choice. Is there anything we can do to help you not cut? Do you want me to put away all the sharp knives or something?"

"No. Don't do that. I need to learn to function 'normally,' even with the tools I could use to hurt myself around me. Anyway, I usually only use one particular knife, and it is currently in Megan's possession." Don really hoped to get his knife back from her soon. It wasn't so much that he _would_ use it, but that he wanted to know that he _could_ use it if he really needed to. If the pain just got to be too much. It was an issue of control, and he knew it. So did Megan. Hence, she still had his knife.

"How often do you have to see the psychiatrist?" Alan hoped that if he could get Don talking, maybe his spirits would lift a little.

"Twice a week. Last week's schedule was weird because I was just starting, but for future weeks, I'll be going in every Monday and Thursday. Medical exams every Monday as well." His first exam had taken a while for the doctor to write down information about his scars and then more detailed notes on the most recent cuts. They would use those notes to compare each week to his body to make sure he wasn't cutting any new lines or reopening older wounds. The doc had assured him that the rest of the weekly exams shouldn't take more than five minutes.

Don and Alan continued to talk for a few minutes, but their conversation was cut short when Charlie burst through the door. "Don, I've got some questions about the case," he blurted out, completely unaware that he'd interrupted anything.

Don nodded and indicated that they should go to the garage. His father's attempt to make him feel better hadn't helped; so on his way out of the kitchen, Don snuck to the fridge and pulled out his second beer of the morning. Perhaps feeling better when he woke up was just a fluke.


	19. Buzzed

**A/N: I'm really excited about the new season. According to the iTunes description, Don's job drives him to an "increasingly dark place." Yay! It sounds like the show will be participating in some Don-whumping!**

* * *

After answering Charlie's questions, Don sat back on the couch and drank his beer while watching Charlie work the problem. It was really amazing to watch his younger brother take all the information from a crime and condense it into some expression, then use that expression for "predictive analysis," as Charlie liked to call it.

Having finished the last swallow of his second bottle of beer, Don felt no different inside. The pain was still there, still threatening to crush his chest. Charlie was lost in his math world now, so Don stood up and retreated to the kitchen. His father was at the sink washing his breakfast dishes. "Did you answer all of Charlie's questions," Alan asked.

Don grunted an affirmative while reaching into the fridge for another bottle. Alan noticed his son's behavior, as he'd also seen the second beer Don had taken. With wet, soapy hands, Alan reached out and grasped the bottle Don held in his hand. Defiantly, Don took a step back and opened the bottle. Before Alan could say anything, Don had chugged a third of the bottle. "I think you've had enough," Alan said gently, reaching again for the beer.

Again, Don put the bottle to his lips and swallowed a large mouthful. When he removed the beer from his lips, he growled out a reply. "I'm a grown man, I can make my own decisions." That said, Don returned to the garage.

Alan shook his head slowly. His son had given up the knife, but turned to alcohol instead. He wasn't sure which would be better: a cutter or an alcoholic. Alan started to understand why Charlie had gone to Megan for help. He had absolutely no idea what to say or do to help his son.

Within a minute, Alan held his phone to his ear, listening to the ringing on the other end. After three rings, Megan picked up. "Hello?" she answered.

"Hey Megan, this is Alan Eppes."

"Hey Alan, what can I do for you?" Megan wasn't sure how much, if any, information Don had told his father, and she still wanted to give him that chance if he hadn't already taken it.

"I'm worried about Don. He isn't cutting, but he's already had three beers since I got up an hour ago. I thought maybe you would have some advice."

Megan's eyes widened. Three beers, and it was only a few minutes past 9. Don was taking it harder than she'd expected. "I know how this will sound, but hide all the rest of the beers that are in the fridge. If you don't have a place to hide them where Don won't look, throw them away or pour them down the drain. A bit of a waste, I know, but Don doesn't need to be getting drunk this morning. He'll just regret it later, making him want to cut even more."

Alan began to think of where he could put the beer bottles so Don wouldn't find them, but wasn't coming up with anything quickly enough. "I'll just toss them," he told Don's partner. "It's only a few dollars anyway." Megan smiled on her end of the line. Don was lucky to have a family that really cared about him.

"I'll try to stop by later today," Megan promised.

"Thanks, Megan. You are a good friend to Don. I hope he sees that."

* * *

Don walked into the kitchen to find his father pouring two bottles of beer into the sink. Two rows of empty bottles sat on the counter to the right of the sink. One full bottle was the only thing left on the counter to the left of the sink. "Hey! What are you doing?" he cried out before stepping toward the sink.

Alan was quicker than Don to reach the last full bottle. Before Don could try to wrench it out of his grip, Alan had opened the bottle and begun to pour it out. Don reached anyway, but his father blocked his hand.

Don's insides fell. The third beer had managed to reduce the crushing weight of the pain in his chest to a duller ache. He had hoped that a fourth beer would be able to drown the rest.

Having drained all the bottles of beer in the house, Alan turned to face his son. Don's face was still crest-fallen. "I'm sorry, Donnie, but you can't rely on alcohol to help you."

Don blinked hard. "I just wanted to make it stop hurting," he whispered.

Alan nodded and stepped toward his son. "I know, Donnie. But there has to be another way."

Exhaling sharply, Don looked at his father. "There is another way. I'm just not allowed to do it." His father took another step forward, reaching out toward his oldest son. Don shook his head and stepped back. He blinked again, and when he reopened his eyes, the emotions were buried again. "I'm going to check on how Charlie's doing," Don stated before turning to retrace his path to the garage.

Alan was confused. One moment, Don seemed to be doing well, then the next, he was depressed or overwhelmed. Another second had passed, and then Don was all business. How was he supposed to help if he couldn't even figure out what was going on inside Don's head?

* * *

Charlie had figured out much more than Don's team could have hoped for. Not only had he found a pattern to predict the next robbery, but he had also quantified the level of violence from each previous robbery, and calculated the potential level of violence for each possible grouping. Assuming eight men were in the team carrying out the crimes, and based on the pattern so far of no robbery using the same three men, there were fifty-six possible groupings. Charlie had recognized that the level of violence had increased with each robbery. Using some logical assumptions and the patterns he had noticed or derived, Charlie had eliminated several of the groupings from the list of possible threesomes for any future attacks. With the remaining groupings, he had ranked them based on their potential level of violence, then correlated them with individual future attacks.

As soon as Charlie had started the correlations between groupings and heists, Don had decided to call his team to come to the house. Having them all come to him would make Charlie's job easier. Also, Don was responsible enough to realize that he shouldn't drive while buzzed from the beers he had drunk.

Colby and Megan arrived at nearly the same time. Megan sent Colby on to the garage while she conferred with Alan on how Don was doing. By the time Megan reached the garage, David had also arrived, and Charlie had begun one of his long-winded, highly enthusiastic explanations. Looking around at the faces of her team members, Megan could tell that none of them had any real understanding of what Charlie was trying to communicate, other than the fact that he'd gotten some information to help them. The mathematician finally got around to the practical application, and all the agents in the garage took a little more interest.

From Charlie's expression, it looked like the next robbery would take place early Monday afternoon at one of three stores. The team thanked him profusely for the help, but David and Colby left quickly before the professor could embark on another "fascinating" mathematical discussion. Megan pulled Don aside as Charlie started looking at his Cognitive Emergence work again.

"How are you doing, Don?" she asked, hoping not to upset him.

"I'm fine," he replied automatically.

"I heard you had a few beers this morning. Did that help?" Megan was curious to see whether he'd found any lasting satisfaction from drinking.

Don shrugged noncommittally. "It helped for a while. But now that the buzz is wearing off, the pain is mostly back. Beer didn't give quite the same release."

Megan nodded sympathetically, but was mostly glad that alcohol hadn't proven to be a good alternative for him. She really wanted him to find another outlet for his pain, but she didn't want her boss to become an alcoholic.

"You'll find some way to release your pain," she softly reassured him. "It might take a little while, but you'll find it."

Don nodded, but she could tell that he was still skeptical.

"I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

Nodding again, Don replied, "Yeah, but I'll be in later than usual."

"If you need to wait a few hours after your appointment before you come in, that's fine. We'd understand." Megan knew that Don wouldn't take any more vacation time, but she also knew how tiring therapy could be.

Don didn't say anything, but walked back into the house, leaving Megan in the garage with Charlie, who was completely unaware of the rest of the world.


	20. Progress

Don's appearance was haggard when he arrived at the therapist's office Monday morning. He'd had another long night of fitful sleep; the positive effects of his one good night of sleep were gone.

"How was your weekend, Don?" Dr. Gibson asked, although the answer was written all over the agent's face.

Don didn't even try to hide his contempt for the man as he dropped into his chair.

After engaging in a staring competition for a minute – the shrink trying to encourage Don to talk, the agent just as clearly refusing – Dr. Gibson sat back in his chair and let out a small sigh. "Don, you have to talk. I'm not a mind-reader, and even if I was, the point of these visits is for you to express what you're going through."

Don muttered something through clenched teeth, but all the psychiatrist could make out was "quit" and "dumb questions."

"If you think I'm asking dumb questions, just answer them so we can move on to more important matters," the shrink advised. "I'm trying to help you get there, but _you_ have to put forth some effort." Dr. Gibson idly wondered how many times they were going to have to repeat this conversation before Don decided to really buy into the program.

If Don had been younger, he would have stuck out his tongue at the doctor, or punched him in the face, he couldn't decide which. But, he was an adult, and he was trying to prove that he was mentally and emotionally stable enough to return to the field, so he would have to stick with glaring. "Fine. This weekend sucked," he gave in.

Dr. Gibson nodded. Even if Don wasn't buying in, the agent was at least responding. "What made it suck?"

"I just want to cut," Don admitted.

The psychiatrist's face saddened. "Why did you want to cut?"

Don shrugged. When he looked at the shrink, he knew the man was about to lecture him again on cooperating, so he opened his mouth. "I told my father about all of this."

"How did he react?"

"He said that he's there for me, no matter what."

Dr. Gibson waited patiently. The way Don's voice had ended was an indication to the psychiatrist that there was more going through Don's head. When it was apparent that the agent wasn't going to volunteer the information, Dr. Gibson led him with another question. "But?"

Don frowned. "He said that he'd still be there for me, even if I start cutting again. But I don't think he can. If I cut again, I'd be letting him down. I'd be letting everyone down." His eyes were fixed on a point at the front of the shrink's desk. After a moment's pause, he added, "And then there wouldn't be anyone there for me."

"It sounds to me like you've only quit cutting because everyone else wants you to, not because you want to."

Don gave one of his bitter laughs, looking back up at the shrink. "That's what I've been trying to say all along. I was doing okay when I was cutting. I was… happy. At least I was coping."

"And now?"

"I'm miserable. I don't know how to cope without my knife, and all I can think about is cutting again."

"Have you been sleeping alright?" Dr. Gibson didn't need to see the shake of Don's head. The fatigue was evident in his body language.

"What about your appetite?"

Don shrugged. He never really noticed hunger while he was working on a case. He was usually too focused for anything to phase him. "Sometimes I'm starving, but most of the time I don't notice or don't care if I'm hungry. But I've never really eaten regular meals since I started with the Bureau."

The psychiatrist nodded, pretty sure of his own conclusion. He had one final set of questions to ask to be positive. "Did you feel good at all this weekend? Even for just a little while?"

Don nodded slowly. "A couple hours yesterday morning. I woke up at 3, but I was actually feeling pretty good, so I cooked pancakes for me and my brother."

"So what happened to make you feel bad again?"

Shrugging, Don responded, "I don't really know. I was fine for a while, then I was sitting alone, and an hour later, I was back to feeling miserable."

"Did you do anything to try to stop feeling bad?"

Don's gaze returned to the point on the front of the psychiatrist's desk. His jaw was set, and he wasn't going to answer.

"Don?"

No response.

"Do I need to remind you that cooperating is the only way you'll ever be released from therapy?"

Don's lip curled as he reminded himself that this was not a battle of wills. "I tried to drink away the pain."

Dr. Gibson nodded, but Don still wasn't looking. "How much did you drink?"

"Three beers."

"How quickly?"

"Between eight and nine in the morning."

"Did it help?"

"Not enough."

"How much do you have to drink to feel drunk?"

"I was buzzed after three; I don't know how many more I would have needed to feel wasted. My father dumped the rest of the beer in the house down the drain, or I would have found out." Don was still disappointed about that. A waste of perfectly good beer!

Dr. Gibson smiled faintly. Don really did have support, even if he didn't recognize it.

"From what you've described, it sounds like you are going through clinical depression."

Don rolled his eyes. Great. He was never going to get back to the field.

"Depression isn't abnormal for someone fighting an addiction. Even if you don't want to admit it, you are addicted to cutting, and right now you are in withdrawal. But here's the good news. As time goes on, it will get better. You won't constantly think about cutting, and you won't always be depressed."

Don had decided that this psychiatrist's idea of cheering someone up had definite room for improvement.

"But the toughest part isn't over yet." _Yup. Definitely needs to work on that skill_, Don thought as the shrink kept talking. "You're not going to make it through this because everyone else wants you to. You have to decide that you want to stop cutting."

"I don't really have the luxury to decide," Don replied.

"Yes you do. You can go through all the motions of therapy without ever actually buying into it. As long as you aren't cutting, your boss will be pretty happy. But if you never actually decide that you want to quit, you won't have enough motivation not to cut next time a big case goes really wrong. Even a threat to take away your job won't be enough. You have to want to quit."

Don sat and thought for a few seconds. "I don't want to quit," he admitted honestly. "I'm only doing this because I want to keep my job."

The psychiatrist nodded. "Fair enough. Thank you for being honest with me. Hopefully, over the next few weeks, you'll start to want to quit, but I never want you to try to fake it. People try, but they can't keep it up for long, and they usually feel worse by the time they decide to drop the act."

"It's not so much that I don't want to want to quit, I just can't see any other way to get rid of the pain."

"If you could find another way, would you want to quit cutting?"

"Maybe."

"Well, that's a starting point."

* * *

Don finished his session with the shrink and his medical exam and still made it into the office by 10. He found his team in the conference room. "Hey guys," he said as he walked into the room. Megan was relieved to see that he didn't look as exhausted as he had after his previous sessions. Maybe Don was starting to make some progress.

Megan was the first to respond. "Good morning, Don. We're just going over some of the last details from the information Charlie gave us. He calculated that the next robbery would happen early this afternoon, but couldn't give us a more precise time."

Nodding, Don motioned for her to continue.

"We're pulling all of our resources on this one. We'll have at least ten agents or law enforcement officers at each of the three possible stores. We're leaving here at 11:15 to make sure we are in position before the robbery starts."

It sounded like his team had it all planned out. "I'll be monitoring the whole thing from here," he told them. All three members of his team noticed the sadness that flashed through his eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it had come, and they all did him a favor by not mentioning it.

The team went back to planning, Don throwing in suggestions every few minutes. At eleven o' clock, Don called all the agents going on the stake-out into the conference room. When they'd all crowded in, he gave some final instructions. Some of the information was useful, but most of it was stuff they'd already been briefed on. No-one said anything to Don, though, knowing that he was just trying to contribute since he couldn't go to the field.

Then they left. Don looked around the office, thinking it was weird for it to be so empty in the middle of the day. He put his earpiece in his ear so he could listen to everything that was transmitted across the radios.

Four hours passed before anything happened. At 3:24, Megan's voice called out across the radio, "We have a visual on the suspects. Positive ID." A few seconds passed, then Don heard, "Three men getting out of the car. They're entering the store." Megan's voice changed subtly to a shorter, clipped version that indicated she was giving orders. "Team 1, take the driver. Team 2, grab the three inside. Team 3, stay alert; make sure the remaining suspects aren't anywhere around. On my count, three, two, one, Execute! Execute! Execute!"

Don waited impatiently for a couple minutes. "Team 1, driver apprehended and taken into custody." Don couldn't put a face to the voice, but he recognized it as one of the agents from the office. Another minute passed before he heard David's voice, "Team 2, all three suspects in custody." Don let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Team 3, scene is secure." Megan's voice carried an air of confidence and victory.

After a few more minutes had gone by, Megan came on the radio again. "All teams returning to HQ." Don breathed a sigh of relief. Even though the scene had already been secured, there was always a possibility that something would go wrong before they could leave.

While he waited for his team to return, Don flipped open his cell phone to call Charlie. The mathematician didn't answer, so Don waited for it to go to voice mail. "Hey Buddy! You were right, again. We've got four guys now in custody. Thanks for your help!" Don hung up as David walked into the bullpen escorting one of the robbers. Colby followed with a second robber, and two other agents hauled in the third and fourth perps. Megan was the last to step into the bullpen. She flashed a smile at Don before heading toward the first interrogation room.

Glancing back at her boss, she noticed the look of envy that crossed his features. "Don't worry," she told him. "You'll be back to full duty pretty soon." Don didn't want to argue with her, but based on his counseling sessions, he doubted that he'd be seeing the field any time soon.


	21. Deprived

The next two weeks passed at a snail's pace for Don. He'd never realized how boring his job really was if he wasn't allowed to do anything but desk duty. In fact, his time on restricted duty had left him with his least favorite part of the job, magnified because he was doing it all day, every day with nothing else to disrupt the routine. _This is what a normal job must be like,_ he reflected.

His desire to cut hadn't diminished at all, but he was learning to resist the longing. He still hadn't found a good way to release the pain, though not for lack of trying. Dr. Gibson had given him a number of suggestions that he had tried, but to no avail. The day that the shrink had suggested crying to let the emotion out, Don had refused to talk for the rest of the session. He'd returned to the bullpen ranting that the shrink was a nut job, and he'd never go back to that office. Megan had managed to talk him out of that resolution, reminding him that his job depended on seeing the psychiatrist. When Don returned for his next session, Dr. Gibson knew better than to mention crying. In fact, the subject never came up again.

Here he was again, walking back into the psychiatrist's office for the seventh time. "How was your weekend, Don?" Dr. Gibson's greeting was too predictable. Up until now, so was Don's response, and the following lecture on cooperation.

But today was different. "Same as last weekend," the agent responded morosely as he sank into his usual chair. Dr. Gibson allowed a small smile to work its way across his face. Maybe this was the day Don would start to buy into the therapy.

"Do you still want to cut?"

Don looked at the man wearily, then nodded. "I wish I didn't want to, but I do," he mumbled.

The doctor's smile grew by a fraction. "Are you telling me that you want to quit?"

Don closed his eyes so he could think. Finally, he reopened them and looked back at the psychiatrist. He shrugged, but immediately followed the gesture with an explanation. "I don't know. I just want to be normal." His voice was sad and worn out.

"What do you mean by 'normal'," the shrink asked.

"_Normal_ people don't have an elephant sitting on their chest that won't come off. I know cutting would make it go away, but there has to be a way that _normal_ people do it."

Dr. Gibson wondered how much sleep Don had been getting. He jotted down a note so he would remember to ask later on. "You aren't _abnormal_, Don. You just haven't learned a healthy coping mechanism. Lots of people don't have healthy coping strategies, but some of the unhealthy ways to deal are just more common. Like drinking to excess, or beating your wife and kids. I'm not saying that cutting is okay, but it isn't any worse than what some people do."

Don's eyelids were drooping as the doctor spoke.

"Don, how much quality sleep have you gotten in the last week?" He watched as Don's mind tried to think back through the days, the agent's fingers twitching as he did the math.

"Maybe twenty hours, I don't know."

The psychiatrist's eyes widened. He knew that Don hadn't been sleeping well, and that he had looked more fatigued every time he came to a session. Yet, the doctor hadn't anticipated just how little sleep Don had been getting. "That's less than three hours a night," he said softly. Don nodded sleepily.

"Is there any specific reason you haven't been sleeping?"

Don shrugged. "Too much pressure," he replied, pointing to his chest. "Too many elephants."

Dr. Gibson nodded, suppressing a smile. As much as he liked Don's willing cooperation, he knew that further discussion would be useless. After rummaging through one of the cabinets in his office, the psychiatrist sat back down. "Don, I know you told me last week that you didn't want any drugs, and I won't force you. But I think you could really use a sleeping pill. You can't fight an addiction if your body is too tired to stay awake." He pushed a small foil capsule across the desk. "It's a one-pill sample pack. Go home. Take the pill and get some sleep. Nothing else I can say right now is going to help you. Just get some sleep."

It was a clear indication of just how tired Don really was that he nodded and accepted the sleeping pill without putting up a fight. As he stood to leave, Dr. Gibson walked with him to the door. "Come back tomorrow morning, same time, and we'll resume the session."

Don nodded and left. That was probably the most worthwhile therapy session he'd ever had. On his drive home, he called Megan to let her know he'd be out for the day. She assured him that they would do alright without him, and wished him a nice day off.

Finally back at his apartment, Don opened the foil pouch and swallowed the pill without water. It was supposed to take about a half hour to really kick in, but on an empty stomach and sleep-deprived body, the drug took over in less than fifteen minutes. Don had time to pull off his shoes and clothes before sluggishly climbing under the covers on his bed.

* * *

Don woke in a stupor. A glance at his alarm clock told him that he'd been asleep for nearly twelve hours. To his surprise, he was actually still tired. After finding something to eat from his kitchen, Don stumbled back into bed.

Sleep didn't come as easily without the help of a sleeping pill, but the insomnia didn't come back full-force. Don woke every hour or two until morning.

The make-up therapy session went fairly well, but Don was completely unprepared for what happened in the last five minutes.

"I think you're making really good progress, Don," Dr. Gibson said. Don's attention had started to drift, knowing that the session was almost over.

"Even though you aren't in the clear yet, I don't think you're going to cut any time soon." The shrink paused, apparently waiting for an answer, so Don agreed.

"I know how much you hate being stuck at your desk." Don looked up sharply at the doctor, not daring to hope that this was going somewhere.

"How long have you been restricted from field duty now? Two and a half, three weeks?"

Don corrected him quickly, "Twenty two days."

Dr. Gibson smiled. Don really did hate desk-duty. "I'm going to recommend that you be placed back on full duty." He paused at Don's sharp intake of breath. "However," he continued gently, not wanting to burst the agent's bubble. "This is going to be like a probationary period for you. Your partner, Agent Reeves, will have explicit instructions that at the first indication that you are unfit or not quite ready to return to the field, she is to contact your supervisor immediately, and your restriction from field duty will be put back in place. Understood?"

Don nodded immediately. "When does this take effect?" he asked.

"I'll send the report to Director Merrick as soon as we are done with this session. You'll have to wait for the official clearance, but you should be back on full duty by this afternoon."

"Thank you."

"Like I said, you're not in the clear yet. You'll still be coming here twice a week, and you will be under close scrutiny while in the field. I'm satisfied that you have developed enough self control not to cut, but you still need to establish positive coping skills to replace cutting."

"I understand. Thank you," Don repeated.

"You're welcome, Agent Eppes. Have a good week; I'll see you on Thursday." With that, Don was dismissed.

Before Don made it out the door, Dr. Gibson added one last thing, "If you have trouble, feel free to call me. You can call any time, day or night. If you get back to the field and decide you aren't ready, that's okay. We would all prefer that you take the time you need now rather than rushing your return and risking relapse."

Don nodded his appreciation as he walked out the door.


	22. Moody

**A/N: Sorry about the long wait for this update (Hey! That rhymed!). This has been the week from hell. I meant to type a lot last night after a quick nap and then getting some more work done. However, too many nights of only 4 hours of sleep and an average of 1.25 meals per day caught up to me, and my mind and body weren't too happy. So, they rebelled. I woke up from my "hour-long" nap at 5:30 in the morning, 10.5 hours after I'd gone to sleep. So, now I'm caught up on rest, behind on work, but ready for another four nights of little-to-no sleep. And here's another chapter. A little shorter than most of the chpts in this story, but I liked the plot progression as it is, and didn't want to force it to be longer. Hopefully I'll be able to write another chapter or two in the next 3-4 days. **

* * *

Don could hardly contain his excitement, even while undergoing his weekly medical exam. By the time he strolled into the bullpen, he was whistling to himself. Actually whistling. 

Colby was the first member of his team that he encountered. "Good morning, Agent Granger!" he greeted the younger agent enthusiastically. Colby gave him an odd look, but continued walking. Don didn't notice.

"How are you doing today, Agent Reeves?" he continued his string of enthused greetings when he reached Megan's desk.

"Alright, and how are you, Agent Eppes?" she replied slowly, somewhat confused by his enthusiasm and use of formal titles. Don was sounding much more… alive than when she'd spoken to him on the phone twenty-four hours before.

"Isn't this a great day to be a member of the Federal Bureau of Investigations?" he responded. Megan didn't answer, completely stunned. Who the hell was this guy, and what had he done with Don Eppes!

Trying to work with a hyper boss was more difficult than anyone would have imagined. The other three members of Don's team met casually in the break room while pouring new cups of coffee. Don's enthusiasm had worn them out within the first hour. "Is Don really freaking anyone else out?" Colby asked, still wide-eyed.

David answered first. "I don't know what they've put him on, but I think they need to adjust the dosage. I can't handle much more of this."

Megan laughed, but threw in her opinion. "Maybe this is what happens after you get a day off. I can't remember the last time I had a vacation, so I don't really know for sure."

Colby laughed abruptly, unfortunately choking on the hot coffee he'd just poured down his throat. David pounded him on the back until it was evident that Colby was okay. All three agents laughed for another minute before returning to their desks.

Don's exuberance started to wear off as the morning progressed. He hadn't heard or seen any sign of Merrick, and was starting to wonder. Maybe the shrink hadn't gotten around to writing the letter. Maybe he'd reconsidered. Maybe Merrick had decided not to go for the shrink's recommendation. As the "maybes" and "what-ifs" piled up in his head, Don found himself digging through his desk to find a pack of gum. Chewing the gum helped to keep his mind off all the hypothetical situations over which he had no control.

Lunch-time rolled around, and Don was as grouchy as ever. Everyone who tried to talk to him was met with a nasty glare. His team, who had been avoiding him earlier because he was too much stimulation, now walked on eggshells around him, not wanting to set him off.

One o' clock hit, and Megan passed Don's desk, only to hear him mumbling to himself about "Stupid shrink," and "What the hell kind of a trick was he trying to play?" Colby had asked her about what was going on with their team leader, but she had no answers. Don's erratic mood swings confused her just as much as anyone else.

By two o' clock, Don had taken to pacing the office, no longer talking to himself. Megan couldn't decide which was better for him or the team. Her musings were interrupted when Merrick walked into the bullpen. Don made a beeline for his desk, where he found a new piece of gum to start chewing. Merrick approached Megan's desk carrying a thick briefcase. "Agent Reeves," he started formally. "I'd like a word with you." He indicated the conference room.

Megan stood to follow the Director when she caught Don's eye. She didn't see any hint of the glare he'd been giving everyone in the office. Rather, he looked… anxious. Nervous at the very least.

Don watched Reeves and Merrick's retreating forms and felt suddenly drained. Hopefully, Merrick was telling Megan that Don would be allowed to return to field duty, but Don couldn't tell for sure. Merrick's facial expressions and body language hadn't given anything away.

Several minutes passed before Merrick stepped out of the conference room, looking directly at Don. "Agent Eppes," his voice rang out. "In here, now!"

Don experienced a flash of déjà vu. Just three weeks ago, he'd been walking to the very same room to find out that he was restricted from the field. He could only hope that the outcome of this meeting would be substantially better news.

Megan was already sitting at the table when Don entered. Merrick indicated that Don should take a seat.

"Now, Agent Eppes." Merrick was always very formal in his use of titles. "Dr. Gibson has recommended that your restriction from field duty be lifted, with provisions of course." Don nodded, trying to signal to his boss that he'd already heard this part of the story, and to quickly move on to the punch line. Merrick missed the hint.

"He thinks you still have a ways to go with therapy, but that you are mentally and emotionally sound enough to return to field duty." Don was getting impatient, and since Merrick wasn't catching his nonverbal cues, he interrupted.

"Sir, Dr. Gibson and I discussed his recommendation this morning."

Merrick looked like he'd lost his place in a speech. "Right. Well, then, you know that your status will be considered probationary, and that Agent Reeves is responsible for making sure that you are actually able to handle yourself in the field." Don nodded. "If she concludes at any time that you should not yet be allowed to work in the field, she is to immediately contact me, and your field status will again be revoked. If this happens, you are not to attempt"

Don cut him off again. "I'm not to attempt to seek retribution or punish her for her report. Got it."

The look of momentary confusion flashed across Merrick's face again before he continued. "If you are pulled off field duty again because she does not think you are ready, it will not have any other negative effect on you or your record." Don nodded gratefully. "However, if you are found to have injured yourself again, there will be more serious ramifications. Understood, Agent Eppes?"

"Yes, sir," Don replied sharply. Even if it was hard, he didn't plan to cut any time soon. Being in the field meant too much to him.

"Very well. I have already completed the necessary paperwork to amend your status." Merrick reached into his briefcase and pulled out three objects. One-by-one, he slid them across the table to where Don sat.

Badge. Handcuffs. Standard FBI-issued weapon in its holster.

Don solemnly replaced each item on his belt. Nothing in the world would make him give up these three items again. When Merrick left the conference room, Megan smiled across the table at him.

"Congratulations, Don. I told you that you'd be back soon!"

Don returned the smile. "Not soon enough," he replied.

Megan schooled her features as she stood up. Don shot her a questioning glance that also swept across the office. She whispered, "They won't hear anything from me. This is your's to tell."

Don smiled back appreciatively, letting Megan leave the room first. He heard David ask what was going on, but Megan just shook her head.

After taking a deep breath, Don rose from his chair. The weight of his pistol, badge, and handcuffs felt right. He'd missed it for the last twenty-two days.

As he strode out of the conference room, Colby was hanging up his phone. "We've got a robbery, possible hostage situation. Sorry, Don," the younger agent announced to the team. His team always apologized when leaving on a mission when Don couldn't accompany them.

Before anyone else could respond, Don jumped in. "Colby, you ride with David. Megan, you're with me."

David and Colby's eyes widened, glancing down at Don's belt to make sure they understood the situation correctly. "Welcome back, boss," Colby congratulated him.

David looked like he was about to ask a question, but Don cut him off. "Time for discussion later. Let's move!"


	23. Field

**A/N: Sorry again. Another hell of a week. The end is in sight, though! The end of this story, that is. Being crazy busy with school will last until May, when I'll be free! Only 1.5 semesters left of college!**

* * *

The hostage situation was resolved without a hitch, perfectly by the book. Don's team lured the robber out by apparently conceding to his demands. Before he'd even reached the getaway car he had requested, Colby had blind-sided him, tackling him to the ground, and slapping a set of cuffs on his wrists. Not even a single shot was fired. None of the hostages were hurt, other than the inevitable emotional trauma they would have to face. 

Don was thrilled that the case had gone so well, but even that couldn't compare to his excitement to be back in the field. As soon as the SUVs had rolled to a stop when they had arrived at the scene, Don was out of his seat and focused on the task at hand. On the outside at least, he appeared to be the same old Don from the past few years. It was almost as if he'd never left the field.

Megan kept a very close eye on her boss. While he seemed to be doing well, she knew that appearances could be very deceiving. Especially with Don Eppes. He had done so well hiding what was really going on for years that she wasn't ready to believe that she was seeing the truth now. She understood that people could change, and hoped that Don had changed and would continue to change, but since keeping up appearances was such a huge part of his nature, Megan didn't believe that he was completely different yet.

Although she was truly excited that her team leader was back in the field, what Merrick had told her was slightly disturbing. Don only knew about half of his psychiatrist's recommendation. The other half was confidential, and Dr. Gibson had given explicit instructions that only she and Merrick were to hear it. The psychiatrist was guardedly optimistic about Don's progress, but didn't think the agent was completely stable yet. The decision to allow him to return to the field was a difficult balance. On one hand, Dr. Gibson believed that the restoration of his status would give Don more confidence and more motivation to continue his therapy. The doctor hoped that being placed back on full status would yank Don out of the depressed "funk" he'd been in. Since Don had refused and was continuing to refuse anti-depressant medication, his psychiatrist was forced to rely on traditional psychotherapy coupled with some non-standard techniques. This was one of those "non-standard" techniques.

However, Dr. Gibson recognized that there was a strong possibility that Don would eventually crack again under the pressure of returning to the field, and a second revocation of his status would potentially set him in a graveyard spiral of depression. Megan's role was to monitor Don's behavior and any subtler signs he exhibited of a return to his self-destruction, but ultimately, she was in place to make sure that Don got help dealing with his pain before the weight of failure crushed him. She was there to help him succeed at dealing with his emotions, even when he failed at cases in the field.

On the drive back to the office, Megan decided to approach the issue that was looming between them. "Good job out there, Don," she started indirectly.

"Thanks," he replied, still beaming. He kept his eyes on the road, so he didn't see Megan's mind reeling to figure out what to say and how.

"You know that I'm here for you, no matter what?" she asked.

"Uhh… sure," his reply was a bit hesitant. Don knew that, as his friend, Megan supported him. Yet, he also knew that her support might include pulling him out of the field again.

"Unless you start to have really bad problems, I won't recommend for Merrick to revoke your field status," she blurted out finally.

Don took his eyes off the road for a second to look over at her, surprised. "Really?" His tone confirmed her suspicion that he was wary of her.

"Really," she agreed. "I want you to tell me if you think you're having problems, but I won't report you unless I've got significant evidence that you can't do the job." In truth, Merrick and Dr. Gibson both knew and had even suggested this line of action. Megan hated to deceive Don, partly because he was her boss, but mostly because he was her friend. Don was supposed to think that Merrick was gunning to remove him from the field again, but Megan was only supposed to report anything of critical importance. Kind of like "good cop, bad cop." She'd had ethical issues with agreeing to their plan, but in the end, she agreed to support Don, encourage him to talk to her or the shrink, and do her normal job as the team's behavioral analyst. Just like before, if she saw something wrong, she would confront him and give him a chance to change before reporting anything to his supervisors. This time, however, she would keep a closer eye on him, knowing that he wasn't doing as well as he looked.

Don still wasn't sure that he could believe her, so he didn't say anything, just continued to watch the road.

"Despite what you may think, I'm really not out to get you," Megan added. "And as hard as it probably seems, I need for you to trust me. Let me know if something's going on, okay?"

Silence ensued for a few minutes before Don responded. "I'll try, but I'm not making any promises."

* * *

The next couple weeks went by without too many problems. The cases Don's team investigated were mainly financial, so there weren't too many opportunities for Don to fail drastically. 

Don's first critical case back in the field was a serial rapist. The guy had already raped three women before his team was assigned to the case. None of the victims were able to give even a basic description of their assailant. The team worked day and night to piece together similarities in the witness testimonies, hoping to use the MO to catch the guy. It was when a fourth young woman was attacked that Megan started to worry about Don. There were no clear indicators that he wasn't dealing well, just subtle hints. His renewed determination to solve the case, his tendency to push his team a little harder than he should. Those subtleties were Megan's only clue that all might not be well. Thankfully, she was watching for such signs, and recognized them even before Don.

After the third straight night at the office, Megan pulled Don aside as they refilled their coffee cups. "You doing alright?" she asked pointedly.

The team leader shrugged evasively, looking for a path back out of the break room. Megan was in the way.

Megan crossed her arms, almost daring him to try to move past her. "We aren't leaving until you tell me what is going on."

Mirroring Megan's action, Don crossed his arms, stubborn as ever. He was sure that his stubborn pride could outlast her concern any day!

Minutes passed before Megan broke the silence. "Damn it, Don! Just let down your guard for five minutes!"

Don shook his head slightly.

"Why not?" she demanded.

"I can't," he responded simply.

"Why not?" Megan repeated, arms still crossed.

Letting his arms fall to his sides, Don gave an honest answer. "Keeping my guard up lets me keep everything else that's threatening me at bay."

"You have to deal with it eventually," she replied more softly.

"I know," he shrugged. "Just not while we're working on a case."

Megan nodded. "When you decide to deal with it, call me if it feels like too much." She tried to word her offer very carefully, knowing that male pride, and even worse, Eppes pride, would keep him from accepting her help if she made it sound like he was weak.

Satisfied that she'd gotten him to open up a little bit, Megan stepped aside so Don could leave the room. As he walked through the door, Don turned back and raised his coffee cup in a mock toast. "Back to work!" he announced with a smile.

* * *

Five more days passed and two more women were sexually assaulted before Don's team managed to catch the rapist. Don's team was exhausted by the end of the case, and rightfully so. Six victims over the entire time period, three on Don's watch, topped off by minimal sleep left them all physically, emotionally, and mentally drained. 

Colby and David had worried about how Don would do with the prolonged case, but were relieved to see that their boss didn't have any sort of a nervous breakdown. Megan, on the other hand, was still concerned. Don seemed to be reacting to the case better than ever before, which bothered the profiler. Maybe the thought of losing his field status again had scared the team leader into burying his issues even deeper.

Only when they returned to the office to finish the paperwork on the case did Don give any indication that everything wasn't alright. Megan glanced over and noticed that Don's fingers were tapping incessantly on his desk, and he hadn't made any progress on his report. A few minutes later, Megan glanced back up to find that Don's head was in his hands. A quick scan of the office revealed that she, Don, and David were the only ones left.

Megan saved her progress on her report before walking to Don's cubicle. Still hunched over, he didn't acknowledge her presence. Megan stood behind her boss silently, only then able to hear his labored breathing. Softly, she put a hand on his back and knelt down beside him. "It's not your fault," she whispered.

Several minutes went by and Don's breathing grew easier. Suddenly, he stood up, nearly knocking Megan onto her back. He stepped past her and rushed toward the exit. "Where are you going?" Megan called out after him.

"Out," he replied.

Within seconds, he had called and entered an elevator. "Call me before you do anything…" she started, but was cut off when the doors slid shut. "Rash," she ended, knowing he didn't hear her.


	24. Incommunicado

**A/N: Two updates in two days! I'm trying to get a couple in before next week, since it promises to be a _very_ long week. Thanks to everyone who has written reviews! Keep them coming!**

* * *

Don automatically selected the ground floor when he stepped into the elevator, but as it began to descend, he decided to press the button for the basement. The FBI Headquarters had gym facilities in the basement for employees and agents to use. Almost everyone had already gone home, so the gym was nearly empty. Don wove around various equipment – weight machines, stationary bikes, elliptical trainers – before stopping in front of the punching bag. He quickly pulled his weapon and cell phone off his belt and unbuttoned his dress shirt, laying it on top of his other possessions on the floor. 

Now attired in dress pants and an undershirt, Don began to wail on the bag. His shoulders and arms began to ache after a few minutes of hitting the bag, but he barely noticed. Sweat had soaked through every inch of his shirt, but he didn't care. His punches were strong and fast. Only at the first sign of blood did he slow down, but even then, he didn't stop.

The shrink had told him that he needed to externalize his pain, so that's what he was trying to do. Hitting the punching bag until his knuckles were slick with blood helped him "express" all the pent-up rage, frustration, and pain from the past few weeks, but when Don stopped swinging, the pain was still there. Upset at the futility of what he'd just done, Don bent over to pick up his shirt, phone, and weapon. Sweat ran down his face and neck and blood started to ooze down his hands as he mashed the button to call the elevator.

As soon as the elevator opened on the ground floor, Don's phone chirped at him to let him know that he had missed a call. Flipping his phone open, he glanced at the screen, indicating that he had actually missed fourteen calls. He scrolled through the list angrily. Charlie. Megan. Charlie. Dad. Dad. Charlie. Megan. Dad. Charlie. Charlie. Charlie. Dad. Dad. Charlie.

He'd only been in the basement for an hour, and already he was being hounded?! Megan must have called his family and told them to worry about him. What the hell was wrong with her?! Didn't she know that his brother and father already worried about him enough? They certainly didn't need his partner throwing them into a frenzy!

His phone rang in his hand while he was unlocking his car. Still irritated, Don clicked the button to accept the call. "What?" he snapped.

"Hey Don," Charlie's voice came tentatively out of the speaker.

"What do you need, Charlie?" Don demanded.

"Where are you? You haven't answered any of our calls, Megan didn't know where you went when you left, and you aren't at your apartment."

"How the hell do you know I'm not at my apartment?!" Don's voice had risen in volume, almost at a shout now.

"We were worried when you didn't answer your phone… so I used your spare key to get in." Charlie's voice was trembling; he knew that his older brother was about to rip him apart. Although he wanted to see Don to verify that he was okay, Charlie was relieved that he wasn't within arm's reach of his brother.

Don was livid. "You did _WHAT_?!" he yelled. "I don't answer my phone for an hour, so you decide to barge into my apartment?! I'm **_fine_**! Stop worrying! Just leave me alone for a while!" He snapped the phone shut, not wanting to hear anything else his brother said.

His phone rang again, but Don sent the call straight to voice mail before turning off his phone altogether. He had initially planned on heading back to his apartment, but now that he knew his brother was there waiting for him, he changed routes.

A glance at the clock on his dashboard told him that it was 9:00. He drove through the back streets as if on autopilot toward his new destination. It was still early enough that it would be open for another hour.

* * *

Charlie was still shaken from his short conversation with Don. Maybe he shouldn't have gone to his apartment, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. They were all worried that Don was going to cut, and Charlie wanted to stop him before he did. What else were they supposed to assume when Don left the office abruptly and refused to communicate with anyone? 

The first time he tried to call back after Don hung up on him, the phone rang once and then went to voice mail. When he tried again, it didn't even ring. Despite Don's assertion that he was okay, Charlie was worried about him.

"Megan, it's Charlie."

"Hey Charlie, did you get a hold of Don?"

"Yes…" Charlie didn't want to be a tattle-tale, but he thought his concern was legitimate.

"What did he say?" Megan prompted at Charlie's hesitation.

"He yelled at me for going to his apartment, then he said he was fine, and hung up on me."

"Maybe I should try talking to him," she suggested.

"You can't. He turned off his phone."

"Damn," she swore. "Do you have any idea where he's been, or where he's going?"

The professor shook his head, then realized she couldn't see him. "No. He didn't answer when I asked him where he'd been. It sounded like he was driving, but I don't know where he was going. Do you think I should stay here and wait for him to come back to his apartment?"

Megan thought for a minute. "Charlie, I'm really not sure," she said honestly. "We don't want him to cut, and I don't think he'll do that if you're there; but, he's going to be really mad if he finds you there when he gets home."

Charlie sighed. "Thanks anyway. I guess I'll talk to you later if I hear from him again."

His cell phone rang within seconds after he had disconnected from his conversation with Megan.

"Hello," he answered.

"Charlie!" he heard his father's frantic voice. "Don turned his phone off!"

"I know," Charlie responded sadly.

"Did you get to talk to him?"

"He said that he was fine, and that he just wanted to be left alone for a little while."

"Are you coming home, then?"

"No, he isn't here, so I think I'm going to wait for him."

"Thanks, son."

"Talk to you later, dad."

* * *

Crack! 

Don's follow-through was perfect as he watched the baseball soar up into the air. He got back into his stance and waited for the next ball. The machine spit it out – low and outside. Charlie would have been proud… he didn't swing for it. He hit most of the good pitches in spite of the cramping muscles in his shoulders from the hour he had spent hitting the punching bag at the gym.

By the time Don climbed back into his SUV, 45 minutes after arriving at the batting cages, he had calmed down considerably. He retrieved his cell phone from the passenger seat where he'd left it. He turned it on, but hoped that Megan would realize that he wasn't going to answer her calls, so if they needed him for a case, David or Colby would need to call.

He drove home quickly, just wanting to go to sleep. He had been worn out before leaving the office; now he was exhausted. When he pulled into his parking lot, he glanced up at his apartment windows. The lights were on. Damn. Charlie was still there.

Taking a deep breath, Don made his way up the stairs to his apartment. He unlocked the door and stepped inside to find Charlie sitting on his couch.

"Don!" Charlie greeted, obviously relieved. "You okay?" he asked, less relieved. Charlie had just noticed the dried blood covering his brother's hands.

"Fine," Don replied curtly. He just wanted to sleep.

"Are you sure?" Charlie asked, concern evident in his voice.

"I'm fine," Don repeated. "Your concern is touching, but go away. Leave."

Charlie didn't move.

"I'm serious, Charlie. Leave. I want to go to sleep."

"You aren't going to cut?"

"No, Charlie, I'm not going to cut."

The mathematician hesitated. "Are you sure?"

Angry and hurt, Don responded to his brother. "Yes, I'm sure. Do you really think I'd throw away my career?"

Charlie shook his head, but Don kept going. "Do you think I'm stupid, or just weak?"

Charlie's face transformed into the pathetic puppy dog look. "I don't think that, Don!" he tried to assure his brother.

"Then why are you so worried?! You either think that I'm stupid enough not to realize that I was throwing away my life by cutting, or that I'm too weak to handle it. I'm sorry I'm not a genius like you," he spat.

"That's not it at all, Don. I don't think you're stupid or weak. No one does!"

"Then what is it?" he demanded.

"We're all just afraid that you'll be overwhelmed," Charlie explained quietly. "It isn't that you're weak… you're not! You're the strongest person I know. It's just that everyone gets overwhelmed sometimes."

Don shook his head.

"You can't tell me you don't get overwhelmed," Charlie prodded.

Exhaling loudly, Don looked his brother in the eye. "What does it matter if I feel overwhelmed? What does it matter if it feels like I just got shot in the chest, or that the world's on top of me, trying to crush me? I can't let it get to me."

Charlie wanted to reach out and touch his brother, but didn't think Don would appreciate the gesture. "It doesn't have to be that way."

Don laughed mirthlessly. "No, it doesn't. Only if I want to keep my job."

The professor wasn't sure how to respond to that. A few moments of silence passed before Don spoke again. "I'm going to sleep. See you later." That said, Don went into his bedroom and shut the door.

Charlie looked between the bedroom door and the front door. What was he supposed to do? When it was apparent that Don really was going to sleep, Charlie made up his mind and walked out the door.


	25. Trust

**A/N: Sorry for another long wait. It was a crazy week at school, plus my 21st birthday... 'nuff said. This chapter's a little bit longer to make up for the wait.**

**Disclaimer: Still don't own 'em.**

* * *

Don woke up to his blaring alarm. That was fortunate – he wasn't even sure that he'd set it before going to sleep. His next thought was one of intense guilt. Deciding that it was a little too early to call, Don went ahead and got ready for work. While driving in the morning rush hour traffic, he made use of his cell phone. 

"Hello?" Charlie's voice was groggy.

"Hey buddy," Don greeted, almost cheerfully. "Did I wake you up?"

"What do you think?" came the disgruntled reply.

Don laughed. "Sorry about that. Listen..." his voice turned serious. "I really needed to call about what happened last night."

Charlie tried to cut in to tell him that there was nothing to explain, but Don wouldn't allow the interruption.

"Hear me out," the agent spoke over his brother. "I'm sorry for last night. I shouldn't have yelled at you. You were just trying to make sure I was okay, and I should have appreciated that. So, I'm sorry."

When he didn't hear a reply for several seconds, Don began to worry that Charlie had fallen back asleep. "Still there, Charlie?"

"Yeah, Don. Like I said, no need to explain. If anything, I should be thanking you for telling me how you really felt."

Don wanted to contest that statement, but he realized that he couldn't. While he shouldn't have gotten angry with his brother and told him to leave, everything else he had said was true. He _was_ afraid that people thought he was stupid or weak, even if he didn't want to admit it. He really didn't think there was any other way to get rid of the internal pain without cutting. But it was also true that he wasn't going to throw his life down the drain by cutting again. "Thanks for being at my apartment when I got home," Don finally responded.

"Any time."

"Call before you come next time, though, Chuck," Don joked. Charlie laughed, and then told Don to have a nice day. Don returned the farewell before hanging up.

* * *

Megan was at her desk when Don walked into the bullpen. After giving him a few minutes to set down his stuff and get a cup of coffee, she approached his cubicle. "What happened last night?" she asked in lieu of a greeting. His bloody knuckles hadn't escaped her notice. 

"Spent some time in the gym with the punching bag, then went to the batting cages for a while," Don responded nonchalantly, not even looking up from his computer.

Megan was taken aback that she hadn't needed to pry the information out of him. "And not answering the phone?"

"Just needed some time to process."

She nodded, still amazed at his level of honesty. "So, are you doing okay now?" Megan knew she was probably pushing her luck to expect him to keep cooperating. To her continued surprise, he looked up at her and answered truthfully.

"Not really. Still feel like something's crushing me, but I'll get over it."

Was he just having a really good morning, or did it seem like he actually trusted her?! "So punching a bag until your hands bled… did that help?"

"No, not really. It externalized the pain, sure, but didn't do much in the way of letting it go. Maybe next time I should use some gloves." Don's voice was still nonchalant, as if they were talking about sports or the weather. His eyes returned to his computer screen as he checked his email.

"Maybe that would be a good idea. What about batting? Was that good?"

"Alright, I guess. Better than boxing, at least."

"So do you still want to cut?"

Don laughed once, then looked back at her. "Oh, you were serious?" he asked with feigned surprise. Then he was back to serious and nonchalant. "Of course I still want to cut. The desire is still there, I just won't give in this time."

"Be sure to find me if you feel like you're starting to slip," she reminded him.

_Of course,_ he thought. _She's one of the ones that think I'm weak._ Don knew it wasn't true, but sometimes knowing the truth and believing it weren't the same. Not letting any of his thoughts show on his face, Don nodded and returned to his computer, signaling that the conversation was over.

Megan sighed as she returned to her desk. It had been going so well, but now Don was shutting her out again. She decided that maybe she was coming across too much like a nagging mother, and that it might be a good idea to back off a little.

* * *

Don quickly finalized all the paperwork he'd abandoned the night before. His biweekly appointment with the psychiatrist had gotten bumped back by a day because of the rape case. Consequently, Don had to settle for a mid-day appointment rather than his usual early morning time slot. 

The morning flew by, and before Don knew it, he was taking his seat in Dr. Gibson's office. The psychiatrist smiled cheerfully at the agent as they began the session. "Long case?" he asked, although he already knew the answer. Even if Don hadn't called the day before to request a postponement in their appointment due to a case, the shrink could tell from the way Don had dropped into his chair.

Don nodded wearily in response.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Don shrugged without making eye contact. Dr. Gibson was disappointed, although he didn't let it show. Several weeks had passed without having to remind Don to cooperate, and it had been even longer since the agent had regressed to only using nonverbal responses.

"How did the case turn out?" The psychiatrist continued to probe, hoping that Don would open up without having to be explicitly reminded.

"Six women raped before we caught the bastard," Don gave the brief summary.

"How many were assaulted after your team took over the case?"

"Three."

"How did that make you feel?"

Don hated that question. It had to be every shrink's favorite inquiry, but it never ceased to aggravate Don. He shrugged again, but when he looked up at Dr. Gibson, he knew he would have to elaborate.

"Pretty bad," he admitted, though he just couldn't bring himself to say, _It made me feel_.

"How so? Guilty? Sad? Angry?"

"All three, but mostly guilt."

Dr. Gibson nodded. "It isn't your fault."

"No, it isn't my fault, but I'm still responsible." Don had had this exact conversation with Charlie when Megan had been kidnapped. Charlie had tried to explain some mathematical theory that was supposed to make him feel better, but Don had cut him off in the middle.

"You can't just dwell on all of the failures. I'm not saying you should forget the victims, but you have to be able to move on."

Don sighed softly. "I find that I can't move on. At least, not until the next case. And even then, the faces of the victims are burned in my head. Any time I start to feel like I'm doing a good job, all of those images resurface."

"Have you tried thinking about all of the people you saved because, in the end, you caught the perpetrator?"

"That sometimes helps, but usually I have to wonder why so many had to pay the price before we caught the guy. Didn't they deserve to be saved?"

"Of course they deserved to be saved, but you're just one man, leading one team in one office in one city. You can't save everyone. And when you start beating yourself up over all the ones you didn't save, you're not going to be able to do the job. You'll either paralyze yourself with fear of failing another victim, or you'll attack every case with so much intensity that you burn out or start to despair that you'll never make a difference."

Don stared at his hands on his knees. Did the doctor think he was weak now, too? "Then why do we even try?"

"Because you _can_ save some. Not only are you saving all the potential victims, but you're protecting the rest of the public from having to see all those horrors."

Don continued to stare at his hands, not responding.

"Is there something else that's bothering you, Don?" Don stayed silent. "What is it?" Dr. Gibson probed again.

Silence. The psychiatrist decided to wait it out.

Finally, Don looked up and abruptly asked, "Why doesn't anyone think I can do my job?"

Dr. Gibson's mind raced back through the conversation so far, but he really didn't see any connection. "Who doesn't think you can do your job?"

"My team, my family, you," Don listed sadly.

"What makes you think that your team doesn't believe you can do it?" the shrink asked, planning to go down the list that Don had given.

Frowning, Don responded after only a moment of hesitation. "A lot of little things… comments they make, the way they are always watching me, asking me if I'm okay, offering to let me leave, the looks they give me when we're on a tough case. The worst is the looks they give each other _about_ me when we're on a tough case. It's like they don't trust me. And that scares the hell out of me. I'd rather die than not have the complete trust of and in my team. Right now, I don't know that I have either."

Dr. Gibson was encouraged by the quantity and quality of Don's response. It didn't sound like the agent was just trying to spew off enough fluff to satisfy the shrink – it sounded genuine. "Have you talked to them about it?" he asked. Don shook his head. "And what about your family?"

"More of the same. They treat me like I'm fragile or about to snap, and they get overly concerned when I ignore their calls."

"Why do you ignore their calls?"

"Sometimes I just want a little space. For the past couple months, everyone has been so afraid that I'm going to cut that they don't ever want to leave me alone." Don briefly recounted the previous night's fiasco.

"Do you understand why they're so worried?"

"I'm not about to go off the deep end, if that's what you're asking." Don's tone was sarcastic.

"Is there any reason that you can think of that would make your family and friends concerned about you when you ignore their attempts at communication?"

"They don't trust that I'm strong or smart enough not to cut." There. It was out.

"I don't think that's it, Don," Dr. Gibson tried to reassure. "I don't think anyone you know would think that you are weak or dumb."

"They have a great way of showing it," Don replied bitterly.

"How long did you hide your cutting before your brother found out?"

"A few years. What does that have to do with anything?"

"So your friends and family have just recently found out about a relatively long-term coping mechanism you've used. When you're going through a tough situation or a hard case, they get concerned. And when you refuse to communicate with them, they expect the worst – that you're hiding from them because you're cutting again."

"But I'm not hiding from them," Don protested. "I just want some time to myself!"

"I understand, Don," the shrink soothed the agent. "But maybe they don't. I think you need to sit down with your family and with your team and tell them exactly what's going on, and listen to what they have to say. They probably don't realize that the way they are acting is hurting you. They might not even know that they're doing anything. If you are open and honest with them, they are less likely to worry so much when you take some time for yourself. Let them know now that you will occasionally need time alone. Then, when you want to go off by yourself, tell someone. That way, everyone will worry less about you, and it will help rebuild any trust that has been lost on either side."

Don gave Dr. Gibson a skeptical look. It was hard enough to talk about his feelings with the shrink, even when his job depended on it. He'd never been big on opening up to anyone else, and now the psychiatrist expected him to share his feelings with his family _and_ his team?!

Dr. Gibson read Don's look easily. Before the agent spoke a word, the psychiatrist continued. "It will help, I promise. Maybe it won't feel like it right now, but you'll understand later on." With that, Don was dismissed from the session to return to work.


	26. Honesty

**A/N: Very close to the end now. It looks like 3 more chapters total - 2 + epilogue. Thanks for all the great feedback over the course of this story!**

* * *

**  
**

Don returned to the bullpen to find his team gathered around Megan's desk. She looked up when he approached. "Hey Don. New case – this one's financial. Fraud." Don nodded and pulled up his chair as she continued to brief the team.

When she'd finished, Don closed his eyes and rolled his chair back to his desk. While his mind raced, he heard the rest of his team starting to return to their own workspaces. "Wait!" he called out. When he opened his eyes, Colby, David and Megan had all turned to face him.

David was the first to speak. "What is it, Don?"

Don couldn't believe that he was about to ask this. "Can this case wait fifteen minutes?"

"Uh, yeah. I guess. What's up?" Megan gave him a strange look, but Don shook his head gently, indicating that she would hear it at the same time as the others.

"I… need to talk with all of you. Conference room." The team leader stood up and led the way, assuming his team would follow. They did not disappoint him.

Megan could tell that her boss was nervous, but she didn't know why. Maybe something at his counseling session had caused this. As she stepped into the conference room, she desperately hoped that Don wasn't going to do something rash – like resign. Don paced at the end of the room, irritably waving at his teammates to sit down around the table.

Colby couldn't stand Don's pacing for more than a minute or two. The younger agent spoke up when it was obvious the rest were willing to wait it out. He just couldn't take it! "Don? What do you want to talk with us about?"

Colby's voice snapped Don out of his bubble. The lead agent abruptly stopped pacing and faced the team, although he avoided eye contact altogether. He seemed to be trying to come up with the right words, but settled for the burning question on the tip of his tongue. Had he been more successful at articulating his thoughts, it wouldn't have come across so bluntly, but tact was not his concern at the moment.

"Why don't you all trust me?"

Shock registered on three faces in the room at Don's sudden, unexpected question, but Don didn't notice. His gaze darted all around the room, but never even touched the faces of his teammates.

"Does this have to do with last night?" Megan asked softly. Don's eyes flickered to her face for a split second before resuming their surveillance of the room.

"Yes, and no. Not just last night," Don replied haltingly. David and Colby were confused, completely unaware of what had transpired the night before.

"What makes you think I don't trust you, Don?" Colby asked, in an almost wounded tone. It hadn't been very long ago that the team leader had pulled him off a case involving an old army buddy. Don's words about trust had really cut deep into the younger agent, and he'd done a lot to regain his boss's trust.

"It's a lot of things," Don resumed his agitated pacing. "The way you all ask me if I'm okay every ten minutes. The way you look at me with worry or pity. The way you look at each other, trying to figure out if I'm lying to you. The way you won't give me one damn hour by myself without freaking out about if I'm coping alright – then call my family to try to freak them out, too!" Don stopped pacing, leaned onto the table with his fists, and glared angrily at Megan. "Don't you think my family worries enough about me without having to raise false alarms?!"

Megan was taken aback at Don's sudden anger. "Don, I'm sorry. I was just…" she trailed off.

"Worried about me?" Don finished her sentence bitterly. "That's exactly what I'm talking about. Tell me straight up - do you think I'm too stupid to understand that cutting again would cost me everything? Do you think my judgment is impaired? Or do you think I just can't stop myself?"

Don's gaze finally swept across each of the three faces in front of him, settling to his far left, where Colby was sitting. Colby matched stares evenly with the team leader before responding. "I don't think any of us think any of that about you." Don opened his mouth to protest, but Colby kept going. "I, for one, don't think any of that. But if you want to know why we're being so cautious, paranoid even… you lied to us, Don." The memory of Don saying the same thing to him so recently flashed through Colby's mind, but he wasn't done. "We don't know what to think now. For so long, we thought you were coping just fine, and then we find out we'd been wrong for years. How are we supposed to recognize when you're having problems again if we never saw the signs in the first place? If you feel like we don't trust you, Don, remember that you never trusted us with this. We're trying to trust you, but making sure that you're okay is more important."

Colby knew that what he was saying wouldn't make Don feel good, but he was being brutally honest. Rebuilding trust had to start somewhere, and Colby was willing to make the first step, no matter how hard it was.

The former soldier's words cut through all of Don's anger and irritation, hitting him pretty hard. If he hadn't already been leaning on the table, he probably would have stumbled or swayed on his feet. As it was, Don just blinked really hard and stared at the table between his hands. He had been accusing his team of not trusting him, when really he had started the cycle. How could he be so blind?!

Softly, Megan spoke next, seeing that Don wasn't taking it very well. She hoped that he wouldn't have another panic attack and start to hyperventilate again. "Don, we don't think you're stupid, or out of control, or that you have impaired judgment. I just think that you haven't got the greatest coping mechanism, and until you find another one that works, you're at risk. Eventually, the stress of this job will catch up to you, and if you don't have a way to cope with it, you might do something you regret. Everyone has a breaking point. It doesn't make you weak or incompetent; it makes you human. You don't have to bear all of this on your own. Let us help! Let us know what is going on, and we can be your support. Like Colby said, trust has to be mutual. Trust us, and we'll be able to trust you."

Don's heart was racing. He hadn't expected this meeting to go like this. He had envisioned himself telling his team his expectations for their behavior and attitudes toward him, and being done with it. By no means had he expected this kind of onslaught. Without looking up, Don hooked his foot around a chair and dragged it over so he could sit down.

David, sitting on Don's far right, was the last to chime in. "Do you still want to cut?" he asked gently. Don was still staring at the table, but he nodded slowly. "Then we can't really just leave you alone," David responded. "We want to be here for you, but you've got to tell us if you're having problems. Otherwise, we won't have any idea how you're doing and how we can help. If you want to spend some time by yourself, that's fine; we'll help you by leaving you alone for a while. Just keep us in the loop. And try not to get too pissed off when we're concerned about you. If you think I'm being to pushy or overbearing, tell me, and I'll back off."

Don finally looked back up at his team. "So if I agree to tell you when I'm having problems, you all will agree to give me some space and stop second-guessing me?" When he'd received affirmatives from all three agents, he nodded wearily. "Alright. Deal."

"Let's go work this case, then," Colby said after a minute of silence. He and Megan began to stand, but Don and David remained in their seats at the table. David watched as Don's shoulders slumped from exhaustion.

"_Are_ you alright, Don?" David's words stopped the other two agents in their tracks. Megan half-expected Don to get angry or irritated with the question, even despite the conversation they'd just ended. She was mildly surprised, then, to hear how Don actually responded.

Don looked into each of the faces that were intensely returning the gaze. Eventually, he shook his head slowly. "I don't know… I guess not." Three pairs of lungs expelled simultaneously – apparently all three members of Don's team had been holding their breath to see if Don would live up to his honesty agreement. Before Megan could suggest it, Don spoke again. "Can you all handle this one if I sit it out?"

The other three members of the team glanced at each other before assuring Don that they could work this case without him, and that it would be perfectly fine for him to get some rest. "Take as much time as you need," Megan advised.

"I don't think I'll need more than twenty-four hours," Don replied.

Colby walked back across the room to stand beside Don's chair. He offered his hand. Don grabbed it and let the younger agent pull him to his feet. "Sometimes we all need a little help," Colby whispered to his boss. Don smiled and nodded gratefully.

"I'll see you tomorrow afternoon," Don said as he started to walk toward the door.


	27. Revelation

**A/N: Another long week. I hope the next update is a little quicker, but no promises. Thanks for all the reviews last chapter! Standard disclaimer still applies.**

* * *

By the time Don reached his apartment, it was shortly after 1 pm. He collapsed onto his bed to take a quick nap before following the second half of his shrink's instructions.

Three hours later, Don woke up, immediately berating himself for sleeping so long. Groggily, he rolled out of bed, splashed some water on his face, and pulled out his cell phone. After pressing a few buttons, he listened to the other end ring a couple times before Charlie picked up.

"Hey Don!" Charlie greeted him cheerfully. "I was actually about to call you. I just dropped by your office, but when I ran into Colby, he said you'd taken off for the day. What's up?" Charlie was conversing so energetically that Don hadn't actually managed to say a word yet.

"Hi Charlie," Don said back, his voice betraying how tired he still was. "Are you all going to be at the house for dinner tonight?"

"Yeah, uhhh," Charlie paused. "Yes, I'm pretty sure Dad and I will both be there. You coming over?"

"Is that alright?"

Charlie laughed. "Of course! You're always free to come by! Dinner around 6?"

"Alright, Buddy. See you soon!" Don flipped his phone shut. Looking at his reflection in the mirror, Don realized he wasn't looking very good. Too… worn out. A glance at his watch told him he had plenty of time before he needed to leave, so he got a quick shower and shave before driving away from his apartment. It hadn't helped him look any less sleepy, but at least he didn't look quite as haggard.

Don's fingers drummed on the steering wheel as he made his way through LA rush hour traffic. He wished that there was some legitimate reason to flip on his lights and siren to make the cars in front of him move out of the way, but that would be an abuse of power. Instead, he sat in the stop-and-go line of cars, trying to decide what to say to his family. The meeting with his team, while ultimately productive, had not gone as he had planned or desired.

Reflecting on the meeting with his team turned out to be a bad idea. How could he have ignored the fact that he had lied to his team? That his team didn't start the deception… it had been Don from the very start. In the midst of traffic, Don's breathing deteriorated. Even more than after the last case, Don felt like a complete failure. Guilt, shame, and pain began to crush him. Don started to hyperventilate, but the blaring horn of the car behind him brought him back to reality. The truck in front of him had moved forward about fifteen feet, and the guy behind him was getting impatient. Don eased his foot off the brake and let his SUV roll slowly forward till he had closed the gap in his lane.

_I can't do this_, he thought. _Not tonight. Maybe I'll talk to them tomorrow._

Don knew that he couldn't put off the conversation another day. He still hadn't apologized to his father for not returning any of his calls from the previous night. Closing off at dinner tonight would probably make matters worse. Don resolved to tell his family what was going on, although he still wasn't sure how to broach the subject.

The smell of lasagna was overpowering as Don opened the door to Charlie's house. He smiled wearily. Lasagna had always been one of his favorite meals.

* * *

The three Eppes men sat down in their usual seats around the table. Don was dishing out his first serving of lasagna when Charlie casually asked, "Why'd you get off work early today?"

Don froze, but quickly regained his composure and finished piling food onto his plate. He just hadn't expected the topic to come up so soon, and he wasn't quite prepared to discuss it. Alan looked between his two sons in confusion. What was Charlie talking about?

"What happened, Donnie?" the confused father asked.

Trying to stall the conversation, Don shoveled a fork-load of lasagna into his mouth. As soon as the sauce hit his tongue, Don yelped and started to suck in air.

"It just came out of the oven, Don," Alan admonished with amusement. Charlie couldn't help but laugh at the expression on Don's face as he tried to swallow the hot food without further burning his tongue or throat.

"Hot," was all Don could croak after he'd swallowed the mouthful of lasagna and half a glass of water. Charlie was still laughing.

"Shut up," the agent growled ominously. He was trying to appear stern, but truth be told, he was glad that his stall tactic had managed to postpone the unpleasant, inevitable discussion. Although it would have been nicer not to get burned in the process.

As the other two Eppes began to eat, conversation remained light and jovial. As Don was helping himself to seconds, Charlie seemed to remember the conversation that had been cut short. "So, why'd you leave the office early today?"

Don tried to remain nonchalant. "Just needed a couple hours by myself, I guess," he responded with a shrug.

Alan joined the discussion. "Is that what happened last night?"

The agent glanced at the professor, trying to determine if Charlie had told their father anything. Getting no response from his younger brother, Don looked back to his dad. "Something like that," he replied, still trying to sound casual, despite the frustration that was starting to build inside.

"Why weren't you answering your phone? We were really worried about you."

Alan started to say something else, but his oldest son cut him off. Don slammed his water glass onto the table with a thud. "Just give it a rest!" he said emphatically. "_Nothing_ happened!"

His second helping of lasagna had barely been touched, but Don abruptly stood up from the table. "I can't do this right now! Maybe later." With that said, he stormed into the kitchen and then outside to stand by the koi pond, beer in hand.

Alan watched his oldest son's movements in shocked silence. What had he said to set Don off like this? After Don had left the house, slamming the door behind him, Charlie looked at his father. "I guess I should have told you how mad he was when he found me at his apartment last night," he said apologetically.

"Did I say something wrong?" Alan asked his youngest son.

Charlie shrugged. "He accused me last night of thinking he was weak or stupid… I'm not really sure what's going on in his head."

"Do you think I should go out there and apologize?"

The mathematician shook his head. Looking out the window at his brother, he responded to his father. "I think we should give him a little space. It sounds like he _wants_ to talk to us. Maybe if we give him a little time alone, he would tell us what's going on."

Alan nodded as he stood up from his spot at the table. "Maybe you're right. In the meantime, I'll hide the rest of the beer." He wasn't really happy with the way the evening was going, but he was willing to let his son brood on his own… at least for a little while. However, he was not interested in letting his son drink his problems away. If Don was going to talk to them, Alan wanted them to all be sober for it. One beer wouldn't be a problem for Don, and probably even two or three would be fine, but Alan didn't want his son to get in the habit of only talking about his feelings after consuming alcohol.

* * *

An hour later, the sun was beginning to set, but Don was still standing by the koi pond. He hadn't moved the entire time except to bring the bottle to his lips and then back down. Alan had run out of other things to do to pass the time. Charlie had disappeared, presumably to the garage.

After five more minutes, Alan decided not to wait any longer. Don had already had enough time to brood alone, now he needed to know that his family was there for him, willing and able to help carry the burden. Quietly, Alan walked out to stand beside his son. He tentatively put his hand on Don's shoulder, ready to pull it back if Don drew away. When his son didn't shrink away from his touch, Alan took it as an indicator that he wasn't unwelcome to stay there.

"If you're ready to talk, I'm ready to listen," Alan spoke softly, watching his son mechanically bring the beer to his lips, tilt it up, then pull it away. From the look of it, the beer was long gone. Don seemed to not notice, just needing something to occupy his hands.

When Don didn't say anything for five full minutes, not even acknowledging Alan's presence, Alan began to wonder if Don had even heard him. "Come inside, Donnie," he said quietly but firmly. Don made no effort to move, nor did he indicate that he had heard his father's plea. Alan used the hand that was already on Don's shoulder to gently guide the agent back into the house. Don didn't put up any resistance.

By the time the father-son pair entered the living room, Charlie had returned from the garage. Charlie shot his father a questioning look, but Alan just shrugged. Alan steered Don to a recliner, where the agent automatically sat down. His father tried to take the bottle out of his hand, but Don's grip tightened. Alan was relieved; this was the first sign that he was actually aware of what was going on. Alan and Charlie both sat down, making sure they could face Don and each other.

"What's going on, Donnie?" Alan's voice was still very quiet, not wanting Don to get defensive and hostile again.

For the first time since he'd left the table, Don looked at his father. Finally able to see his son's face in the light, Alan was surprised at what he saw. The look on Don's face and in his eyes was a look that Alan hadn't seen from his oldest son in decades. He'd seen his son angry, determined, depressed, jovial, overwhelmed, and confused, but this was something entirely different. Fear. Naked fear.

The last time Alan had seen this look was when Don was really young and had just seen his first horror film. Margaret had thought Don was too young to watch the movie, but Alan had insisted that Don could handle it. Margaret was right. Don didn't sleep for three full days, terrified that something was lurking in the dark. It must have been over the next few years that Don had learned to mask all his emotion. If Don had ever been that afraid again, he had already learned to hide it from his parents.

Alan glanced at Don's hands, tightly gripping the empty beer bottle. His knuckles were white from the strength of his grip, but his hands were trembling. "What is scaring you, Donnie?" his father asked after a long silence.

Don visibly tried to release his grip on the bottle, but found that he couldn't. He looked down, regarding his hands as he thought. "I… I think… you all are right… about me."

Alan frowned sadly. "I've been waiting for thirty years to hear you say those words. But as nice as it is to hear you say that I'm right about anything, what do you think we're right about?"

Don didn't look up. "I'm not strong enough, or smart enough, or… _anything_ enough to beat this."

Alan felt like something in his chest was being ripped apart. Maybe he shouldn't have let Don stay outside by himself for so long. "Donnie, look at me." Don's eyes slowly met his father's. "No one thinks that about you. We all believe you are smart, and strong, and you have what it takes to beat this."

Don shook his head. "No you don't. You're all worried about me, and for good reason. You're all afraid I can't beat it."

Charlie spoke up for the first time since dinner. "Don, I already told you I don't believe any of that. We're just worried because we know your job is really tough, and we don't always know what's going on in your head."

Thankful that his younger son was stepping in to help, Alan continued. "Don, I worry about both you and Charlie. That's my right, even my duty, as a parent. It isn't that I don't think you can handle it. Other than worrying too much, what have we done to make you think that we believe you don't have what it takes to beat this? Is it something I've said?"

Don looked between his brother and father, trying to sort out what he could believe. Would his family resort to lying to him just to make him feel better? Don shrugged in response to his father's questions. He really wasn't sure any more. Latching onto the one specific thing he could think of, Don answered. "You don't trust me when I'm alone."

"Donnie, that's not true. Like Charlie said, your job is rough, and we don't want you to have to carry that entire burden by yourself. I'm sorry if you felt belittled by us calling you, but we just wanted you to know that we're here for you."

Don shook his head again. He had the belief stuck in his head; he was sure he was right, but everything his family and friends had said refuted his belief. During an investigation, if all the testimonies and evidence pointed away from a certain theory, it was simple to forget about that theory and try something else. Why couldn't he do it now?

Seeing the confusion on his son's face, Alan pressed a little further to try to help him sort it out. "Donnie, you know that we don't believe all that about you, nor do your friends. So why do you keep insisting that we do?" Don shrugged as if disinterested. "I think you believe all of that about yourself, and you just assume that everyone else does, too."

Don wanted to say that his father was wrong, but he couldn't. It was the only thing that made sense. The confusion was gone now, but the fear remained, and despair replaced the confusion.

In a span of ten minutes, Don's face had reflected more emotion than Alan had seen from his oldest son in years. Alan knew that what he had just said would hit his son pretty hard, so he wanted to encourage him. "Donnie, no matter what you believe, no matter what you think right now, you _can_ beat this. You _are_ strong enough, and smart enough, and good enough. This is like a war. It's going to be tough, but you just have to keep fighting."

"But what if I can't keep fighting? What if I'm not good enough, and I can't help it and I cut again?" The fear had taken over again, full force.

"That's what we're here for, Don," Charlie piped up. "Your family and your friends. We're here to help you fight when you don't think you have it in you."

Don nodded, even though he was still frowning. "And what if I need some time alone?"

"Just tell us, and we'll back off for a while."

The agent nodded again before standing. "I'm wiped out. I think I'll just crash here for the night."

"Good night, Donnie. Thank you for talking with us."

Don heavily plodded up the stairs to his old bedroom. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.


	28. History

**A/N: Alright, this is almost it! This is the "last" chapter, but there will be an epilogue, which is mostly written, so it should be up this weekend, if all goes well. Thanks for all the reviews! The response has been amazing!**

**Disclaimer: As always, I don't own any of the characters from Numb3rs. The only one I can claim is Dr. Gibson, and I don't really like shrinks, so I'd be willing to auction him off. **

* * *

Don was pretty miserable when he woke up the next morning. The shrink had promised that talking with his family and team would make things better, but at the moment, Don couldn't see it. He had learned that his team didn't trust him because he had lied to them, and that really his problems stemmed from his own mind. True, he was much surer of his support system, but the task at hand seemed so much more daunting now. Before talking with Dr. Gibson yesterday, Don was beginning to think that he was pretty close to being better. Now it seemed like he hadn't even started to really deal with his problems, only the symptoms.

After eating a pancake breakfast with his father, Don's mood was still dismal. He didn't know what to do with his time off. His team wasn't expecting him back at work until after lunch, but he wasn't sure what to do until then. Another hour passed, leaving Don bored to tears. It wasn't that he didn't like spending time with his dad, but Alan had work of his own to get done, and Don didn't want to be in the way.

Finally, Don decided that he should use this time to face some of the issues that had come up in the last twenty-four hours. He quickly found that his mind was going in circles, unable to break free from the guilt and self-destructive beliefs he held. Before he could talk himself out of it, Don whipped open his phone and dialed a number from memory.

"Dr. Gibson, this is Don Eppes. Do you have any openings today?"

* * *

"Two visits in two days. To what do I owe the pleasure, Don?" 

Don slumped into his seat. "I followed your advice."

"And?" Dr. Gibson raised an eyebrow. Since when had Don ever taken his advice this quickly?

"It didn't go quite as expected." Don sighed, leaning back and intertwining his fingers behind his head.

"How so?"

"Well, they all agreed to give me some space if I ask for it."

"Isn't that what you wanted?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"So what went wrong?"

Don leaned forward again and started to tap his fingers on his knees. "It's all my fault," he said after a long pause.

"What is?"

"They don't trust me. I lied to them, and now they can't trust me."

"Who?"

"Everyone."

"Did you learn anything else?"

Don nodded. "I assumed that everyone else thought I was weak and stupid... no one does. Except me."

It was Dr. Gibson's turn to nod. He had guessed as much, but it was something Don needed to figure out on his own. "So what are you going to do about it?"

"That's why I'm here," Don said at long length, shrugging. "I tried to change my own mind, but it was just going in circles. I couldn't do it."

The psychiatrist leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Now, Don, I know what you're going to say about this, but hear me out. Typically in therapy, we would have discussed your past from the very beginning. You were pretty adamant on day one that you didn't want to do that, but now I think you should reconsider."

Don's jaw was tensed, and Dr. Gibson sighed, knowing that he was going to have to fight the Agent's stubborn streak yet again. "Don, this will help."

"You've said that before," Don retorted bitterly.

"And I meant it before. I still do." Seeing that Don still wasn't convinced, he continued. "You developed this mindset, probably a long time ago. You can't just keep fighting it in the here and now – it will just keep coming back in other ways. That's why you need to fight the root of the problem. It's similar to a disease; you can't just attack the symptoms, you have to kill the bug that started it."

Finally, Don acquiesced, remembering that in a battle of wills, he stood nothing to gain, and everything to lose. "Fine. But for the record, I'm not buying into the program."

"Give me the next forty minutes. If it doesn't go anywhere, I'll never bring it up again."

Don agreed, albeit reluctantly.

Dr. Gibson leaned back in his chair. "What is the first thing you can remember?"

Don squeezed his eyes shut, trying hard to think. He was only a few years from being forty, and he was now trying to remember back to when he was very young. "I remember being really excited about having a baby brother," he said at long length.

"When was that?"

"He was born when I was five, so it must have been right around then."

"When did people realize your brother was a genius?"

Don glanced sharply at the shrink. "I know what you're trying to do, and it won't work."

"What do you think I'm trying to do?"

"You want me to blame my family for my problems. I'm not going to do it. I don't accept a bad childhood as a legitimate excuse for why people commit crimes, and I won't accept it as a legit excuse for why I cut."

Dr. Gibson suspected that Don's vehemence against talking about his childhood meant there was something there, but he wasn't sure what. Not yet at least. "I'm not trying to assign blame." Don arched an eyebrow. "I promise. Just give me the benefit of the doubt."

When Don gave in, the doctor repeated the question.

"My parents started having him tested when I was eight. When he could do my math homework faster and better than me."

"How did that make you feel?" Don mouthed the words silently as Dr. Gibson asked them. The shrink was altogether too predictable.

"I dunno. At first, it was pretty cool. 'My brother is a genius' and all that. Bragging rights."

"But then?"

Don shrugged. "It got old after a while. Everyone was always asking about _Charlie_. Eventually, he needed special tutors. That can get pretty expensive, y'know? So my parents both had to work extra hours to be able to pay for it. Pretty soon, it seemed like they were always busy with work or taking Charlie to his tutoring sessions."

Dr. Gibson nodded. Maybe they were getting somewhere. "That must have been hard for you. How did you cope with it?"

With a sigh, Don responded. "Everyone always said Charlie was _special_. I wanted to be special, too. I tried to pretend I was really smart, but I couldn't really fool anyone. I was pretty average as a student, but where Charlie could make A's in his sleep, it took me hours of hard work just to pull off B's and C's."

"Were your parents disappointed when you didn't make A's?"

"A little at first, but later on, not really. They pushed me to get the best grades I could, but it was like they had accepted that I wasn't really an A student." Dr. Gibson jotted down something on his notepad.

"So did you keep trying to be special?"

"I gave up pretending to be smart. The one thing I could do that Charlie couldn't do better was baseball. My parents put me in Little League baseball pretty young, and I was decent at it. When I decided I couldn't be a genius like my little brother, I started to push myself in the one thing I was good at. I wanted to be the best baseball player around. I wanted to be…" Don trailed off.

"Special," Dr. Gibson supplied. Don nodded.

"I played harder than all of my friends. I loved the game, don't get me wrong. But at that point, it was more than just playing for the fun of it. I had to be good at something. I wanted to prove to everyone that, even though Charlie got the brains, I wasn't a nobody."

"Did your family take interest in your baseball?"

"Of course. My parents weren't there for every game, but they supported me. Charlie, though, he was my biggest fan. If he didn't have a tutoring session to attend, he was at every game. He watched me, recorded all my statistics, even analyzed my stance."

"Did it make you feel special?"

Don was starting to feel silly. The way that the shrink kept using the term 'special' was starting to get to him. He knew that he was the one who had brought it up, but it sounded so childish. When he didn't reply for a minute, the doctor repeated the question.

"I felt pretty good when I got a baseball scholarship to go to college. But then Charlie had competing offers from Ivy League schools. My mom went with him to Princeton. He was still just a kid."

"What about after college?"

"I was recruited by a Minor League team. I was pretty good, but not great. After a few years playing with the Stockton Rangers, I realized I was never going to be anything more than a mediocre baseball player. So I joined the FBI."

"That must have hurt. You tried for years and years to be great at baseball, but didn't quite get there."

Don looked away.

"When your parents spent so much time taking care of Charlie, did you feel abandoned?"

The agent's gaze was still wandering around the office. "I managed on my own. I learned to take care of myself. I did just fine," he replied unemotionally.

"That's not what I asked."

Finally, Don looked back at the shrink. "What do you want me to say?" he demanded. "You want me to tell you that I was jealous of my brother and I resented my parents?" His voice was heated.

"I want you to tell me the truth. I want you to tell _yourself_ the truth. I want you to let down your guard for ten minutes and actually start to figure out what's going on."

Don glared angrily at the psychiatrist. Dr. Gibson decided to try again, although a little more directly this time. Don was already agitated, and it would be easy enough to push some of his buttons. Just sitting and talking wasn't going to get Don to solve the root of his problems if he didn't buy into the program. The shrink would employ some basic interrogation theory on the agent, hopefully catching him off-guard enough for it to work. It would have to be skillfully done for Don to not immediately recognize the ploy.

"Were your parents disappointed when you didn't end up being good enough at baseball?" The question itself was intended to be inflammatory, but Dr. Gibson said it as if they were discussing the weather.

Don's grip on the arms of his chair was white-knuckled, and he continued to glare ominously at the psychiatrist.

Dr. Gibson continued as if oblivious to Don's anger. "Or when they realized that you would never be smart enough to do anything significant."

A low growling sound escaped Don's throat. "Shut up," he snarled.

"How did your father take it when he realized that his eldest son, who was supposed to be the strong one in the family, couldn't actually cope with his mother's death or the stresses of his job?"

Don jumped out of his chair, barely restraining himself from decking the shrink. "SHUT UP!" he yelled, pulse racing. "How _dare_ you talk about my family that way! Who the hell do you think you are?! You're a liar!" he ranted in a shout.

Dr. Gibson smiled ever-so-slightly. "Exactly," he said quietly. Don's fists were still clenched, nostrils still flared, but after a second, his brain caught on. Still fuming, Don forced himself back into his chair. He had been so easily manipulated, and he hadn't even seen it coming.

"Exactly," the shrink quietly repeated. "You don't really believe that the lies you have told yourself are true. Otherwise, you would have broken down just now. Instead, you were ready to bash my head in for saying those things. You know they aren't true, so now you just have to remind yourself of that whenever you start to think that way."

Don's heart-rate was still elevated, but he wasn't boiling mad anymore. Annoyed that he'd been duped by one of his own techniques, certainly. But raging, not quite. The session was over. He stood up and left.

* * *

Don went straight from the psychiatrist's office to his own. He was a couple hours earlier than he was expected to be back, but that was alright. The twenty-four hours had really just been an estimate, and he felt like he was able to return to work. 

The team leader had been sitting at his desk for almost five minutes before anyone on his team noticed that he was there. Megan in particular had been absorbed in whatever task she was working on, and had failed to notice her boss arrive in the cubicle five feet away. She had stood up to get some coffee when she saw him there. "Don! You're back!"

Don laughed. "I think Charlie's had a little too strong of an effect on you all. Or maybe you just need to take a refresher course on being observant. You _are_ the team profiler, y'know."

Megan smiled. Don really was back. The smiling, bantering Don. "You look like you jumped into a swimming pool with your clothes on," she remarked, noticing that his shirt was soaked with sweat. "What happened?"

Don looked down. He hadn't even realized that he had been sweating from his session with the psychiatrist. "Sparring match with the shrink," he replied.

"Who won?"

The team leader shrugged. "He won the battle, but I won the war." He smiled, but this time, it even reached his eyes. "Let's get to work!" he suggested.

Still smiling, Megan handed him the current case file from her desk so he could catch up.

It was good to have Don back.


	29. Epilogue: Relapse

**A/N: This is it! Really. I promise. Only 3 times longer than my original estimate! I've had a great time writing this, and it has helped me in more ways than I can count. I hope you all enjoyed reading it almost as much as I enjoyed writing it. But if not, that's alright. I won't be offended. ;) So here it is, the last installment to Pain and Failure. **

* * *

_A FEW WEEKS LATER_

Megan walked into the bullpen expecting to be the first one at work. Looking toward the war room, she found that her expectation was wrong. Don was sitting on one of the tables, feet on the seat of a chair. His head was down, hands together, pressing his thumbs into the corners of his eyes.

Concerned, Megan set down her stuff on her desk and made her way to the war room. Don hadn't moved, apparently unaware of her presence in the bullpen.

From what she could tell, he'd been doing fairly well of late, even managing to deal with some really rough cases. In fact, he'd been doing so well that she'd started to let down her guard with looking for signs that he was struggling. Had there been anything before this? She couldn't remember. Silently, she rebuked herself for not doing her job and for not paying enough attention to notice these things any more.

"Hey, Don. What's going on?" she asked quietly, not wanting to startle him.

Don lifted his head up and looked at her briefly before dropping his gaze to the floor. "I'm sorry," he muttered.

Megan's eyes grew wide. What had happened? Should she have seen it coming? "What are you sorry about?"

"I screwed up. I'm sorry," he repeated. Before she could ask what had happened, Don rolled up his sleeve. A single cut was visible on his right tricep.

"What happened?" she asked quietly, trying to still sound neutral. The last thing that Don needed was for her to freak out, condemn him, or express disappointment.

"I was at the batting cages last night. That's one thing that's really been helping me lately. When I was done, I bent over to pick up my keys off the ground inside the cage. Part of the chain-link fence was sticking out, and my arm snagged it. It wasn't much, but it started to bleed. When I got home, I cut it back open. And then, all the pain was gone, just like that. One cut. And everything I've been working toward for the last ten weeks… gone. Just like that. One cut. God, I screwed up. I am such an idiot. I guess everyone was right to worry about me."

Megan stepped forward and put her hand on his arm. "No one thinks you're an idiot. It'll be alright, Don. You should talk to your psychiatrist about this."

Don looked back up at his partner. "I've already called and scheduled an appointment. First opening is in an hour. I also called and got a meeting with Merrick for this afternoon."

Megan finally pinpointed the tone in Don's voice. It was despair. "Don, I don't think Merrick's going to fire you just because of this."

"It's well within his rights," Don replied despondently. "He already warned me."

"Yes, it is within his rights. But it isn't really in the Bureau's best interest. Talk to Dr. Gibson before you do anything, okay?"

Don nodded.

"You want some coffee?" Don shook his head.

"If you need to talk, I'm here."

* * *

"What can I do for you, Agent Eppes?" 

Don sat down across from the shrink, unsure of how to begin. "I… I screwed up."

"How so?"

Don recounted the same story he'd told Megan. "I don't know… going to the batting cages has helped me a lot. It just doesn't give the same level of release as cutting. I can hit baseballs for hours and still not feel like the pain is all gone, when I know all it would take is one cut."

Dr. Gibson nodded. "I'm going to be totally honest with you. I don't think you'll ever find something that works quite like cutting. Really working through pain takes time, but there are things that can help you. Like batting."

"But I blew it. I cut again. God… I didn't even think about doing it, I just… did."

"How long has it been since you last cut, other than yesterday?"

"Seventy-three days," Don rattled off immediately.

"Seventy-three days before you relapsed; seven weeks of that was time you spent in the field. I'm not going to justify your behavior, and neither should you, but relapsing once isn't the end of the world. It probably won't even be the end of your FBI career. What matters is where you go from here. Do you want to cut again?"

Don's response was quick, but not immediate. "No. I really don't. And I'm not just saying that because my job is on the line. I've spent ten weeks learning to live and cope without cutting, then I do it one more time. It did release the pain, but now I have to live with myself, knowing that I let everyone else down. Knowing that I let myself down. I think I'd rather have the elephant sitting on my chest. Because as much as I thought I had control because of the cutting, I was wrong. Cutting controlled me, not the other way around. I don't want to have to go through all of this again, just to stay free of the knife."

Dr. Gibson smiled broadly at the agent. "Don, that's it. If anything, I think relapsing might have helped you. Just remember everything that you just said to me when it gets hard. When you really want to cut. You blew it once… no one expects you to be perfect. Just learn from it, and move on."

Don had one lingering question. "So where does this leave me, as far as therapy is concerned?"

The shrink smiled. Every agent he had ever counseled had one thing in common – the strong desire to not be in counseling. "Well, I still don't think you're ready to be completely rid of me. However, we dropped back to having sessions once a week a month ago. I think you're stable enough that we can continue with weekly sessions, and we don't need to go back to two sessions each week, unless you want to."

The look Don gave the psychiatrist was priceless, making Dr. Gibson laugh aloud. "I didn't think so. I'll see you next week then. If you have time to stick around for a couple minutes, I can write up a letter that should keep you out of too much hot water with your boss."

Don expressed his gratitude and agreed to wait while the shrink wrote the letter.

* * *

Merrick arrived in the office promptly at 1:30 pm. When Don saw his boss getting out of the elevator, he stood up from his desk and walked over to greet him. As he maneuvered around all the cubicles to get to the elevator, all three members of his team gave him little signs of encouragement - a thumb's up, or a small nod and a smile. He'd taken them all out to lunch and told them what was going on. Megan already knew, of course, but he wanted to keep David and Colby in the loop. After greeting Merrick, Don waited until they'd reached the conference room and shut the door before explaining why he had requested the appointment. 

"What is this about, Agent Eppes?" Merrick started.

Following Merrick's lead, Don remained standing. "I wanted to inform you that I relapsed last night. I didn't plan on it; I didn't even think about it, it just happened. I'm not making excuses, I just want to be honest with you." Merrick didn't immediately respond, and Don didn't want to risk pausing and losing his nerve, so he plodded on. "I told Agent Reeves this morning when she got here, and I scheduled the first open appointment with Dr. Gibson. The psychiatrist and I have already discussed the whole incident, and he wrote his impressions and recommendations in a letter for you." Don reached into his suit coat and pulled the sealed envelope out of the inner coat pocket. He handed it over to his boss, adding, "I haven't seen what it says, but Dr. Gibson seemed optimistic about my progress."

Merrick ripped open the envelope so he could read the letter it contained. The next couple minutes while his boss poured over the letter were agonizing for Don. It seemed to him that it hadn't even taken Dr. Gibson this long to _write_ the letter, what on earth could be taking Merrick so long to _read_ it?! Finally, Merrick lowered the letter and looked at Don as if measuring him up. For a couple minutes, Don felt like he was a kid again, getting scolded by his parents.

"While I am not at all pleased to hear that you succumbed to your old habit, Agent Eppes, I think that Dr. Gibson's assessment is fair, and I am willing to give you another chance. This is it, though. Dr. Gibson's letter nearly assures me that you won't cut again. However, if you do, I will remove you from your position as team lead, and I will recommend to the FBI Headquarters that you be immediately relieved of your job as a special agent. As you are well aware, if I make such a recommendation, there is very little chance that HQ would disagree."

Don tried to keep Merrick's response in perspective. This morning, he had been expecting to be fired straight-up, so this warning should be an incredible relief. However, after his appointment with the shrink, who had been so encouraging, Don was taken aback by the harshness of the reprimand. When Merrick had finished, Don immediately responded. "Yes, sir. I understand, sir. Thank you for giving me another chance." His mouth felt as dry as if he'd eaten sawdust.

"As long as that is understood, we're done here," Merrick concluded. Don nodded and started to head out the door of the conference room. "I don't want to have to talk with you about this ever again, Agent Eppes," Merrick delivered his parting shot as Don stepped over the threshold into the bullpen.

Don turned his head to look at his boss. "You won't have to, sir," he responded with more confidence than he felt.

When Don returned to his desk, he was pretty discouraged with how that meeting had played out. However, as the minutes passed, he was reminded of Dr. Gibson's optimistic prognosis. True, he had relapsed once since starting therapy. But the relapse and its aftermath had shown him that he never wanted to go through it again. His motivation was no longer that his job was on the line, or that his family, friends, and coworkers had told him that he had to quit. Now, his motivation to stop cutting came from inside himself. He didn't _want_ to cut any more. And it would take a hell of a lot to make Don Eppes do something he didn't want to do.

* * *

**Thus ends my first Numb3rs fanfic. Thanks for sticking it out with me, ladies and gentlemen!  
**


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